


I do my best because I'm counting on you counting on me

by ijustlookatpictures



Series: There's nothing else we can do [1]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anyone who says they weren't in love is wrong, Bonding, Canon Compliant - kind of?, Denial of Feelings, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I just have mad love for Burgie, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, Religious Conflict, Say it with me - I CAN'T TAG TO SAVE MY LIFE, World War II, these boys deserve the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 64,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustlookatpictures/pseuds/ijustlookatpictures
Summary: Because in the end, it was always Sledge and Snafu.Three times that Eugene fought for Shelton.Two times that Shelton fought for Eugene.One time that they fought each other.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton & Eugene Sledge, Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Series: There's nothing else we can do [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721977
Comments: 136
Kudos: 84





	1. I'm afraid of being afraid but I am not afraid of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shelton fights for Eugene.
> 
> There's one thing that the war can't tarnish and that's Eugene's fear of rats. 
> 
> Luckily, Shelton's there to step in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover for French translations!
> 
> Please note this chapter contains in-depth descriptions of rats so if you're squeamish, be aware! 
> 
> (Said by the idiot with the phobia of rats who wrote this...)

It had taken approximately two and a half seconds from boarding the Am-Trak off the Navy ship for Eugene to conclude that perhaps his Father _may_ have been right - war simply wasn't living up to the noble expectations, quite how he had envisaged.

He had purposely made the decision to cling to Snafu and Burgie upon disembarkment, naively anticipating that their experiences on Glouster made them experts in warfare. He had believed he would be safer with them than with the rest of his fellow new recruits. _Learn more._

Yet, he couldn't help but have Sidney's words ringing in his ears as they readied to move out. As he glanced beside him to see Snafu open his mouth, vomit pooling to the floor and falling unceremoniously against his boots, he began to conclude that _perhaps_ his childhood friend may not have been exaggerating, as he had first anticipated... _o_ _r hoped._

 _'...way - way over there... that's what **it's** like.' _

No, **'It'** proved to be nothing like he had envisaged. 

The **'It'** he had imagined proved to be sunshine and roses, in comparison.

He'd pictured something along the lines of the St Valentine's Day Massacre that they had learnt about in school - why that event, in particular, he had no clue.

It would be similar casualties, at least. A handful would die, maybe a dozen or so injured.

However, _t_ _heir_ unnamed gang bangers would be dressed loincloths, emitting shrieking animal noises as they struggled to fire their pilfered weapons - primitive as they were. After a minor fracas and a few fired shots, the out-of-their-depth Japanese would be easily overpowered by the brave and honourable Marine Corps, not minutes after their arrival onto the beach.

Never once in his wildest nightmares could he ever have prepared himself for the devastation that had awaited him on the Peleliu beach. Nor did he ever imagine he would have the words to adequately articulate the sheer carnage that had ensued. 

If anyone ever asked him what **'It'** was like, he would have only one word to describe it. One word in the entire English language that would provide a sufficient summarization.

 **'It'** was hell.

Except in this hell, there was no separation between the good and the damned. No distinction between the right and the wrong, the just and the unjust.

In this hell, the devil did not laugh openly at your torment amidst the burning flames. No, on Peleliu, the devil was a clandestine foe. He was secreted in the trees, sheltered within tanks, hidden beneath bunkers - the devil was unseen, yet saw everything. Seemingly able to preempt every move the Marines took, effortlessly mowing down men, in their thousands, before they even had a chance to defend themselves.

No, their devil may not have carried a pitchfork, but he was there, alright. For the devil always lived in hell, and hell was on Peleliu.

After the Airfield, there was little Eugene recognised about himself, anymore.

He had seen his friend die. He had seen innumerable men fall around him, writhing in agony. He had seen their dead bodies. He had smelt the stench of burning flesh. He had sprinted for his life, unable to turn back despite how desperately he had wanted to. He had wet himself, not that he would _ever_ admit that. He had killed a man. He had smoked a cigarette.

He was not the Eugene who had stepped off the Navy Ship onto the Am-Trak headed for the shore. He didn't even _feel_ like himself any more. In fact, as far as he was concerned, he didn't think that there was anything within him that would ever be the same again. 

He felt a constant state of numbness; he felt dead inside. The adrenaline of war continuously pumped through his veins, there was nothing he could do to calm it. He wondered whether the feeling of incessant uneasiness would last forever.

Was he going to exist solely to be in combat, forever? 

Because that was how it felt, _all the fucking time_. He was never out of fight mode. Ready to gear up at any given moment - ready for battle... _re_ _ady for anything._

Ready for anything _except_ the rat that scuttled across the top of the foxhole where they sat, one afternoon. 

He yelped, egregiously, covering his eyes with his sleeves much to the bemusement of his fellow Marines. He remained like that, unable to take his hands away, until they swore to him that it had gone.

'Jesus, Phillips _wasn't_ shittin' us!' Leyden had guffawed. 'Mickey's gone now, Gene - you can look up!' 

Eugene raised his gaze, glaring at them all as they mocked him, reddening with mortification. _Perhaps there was more left of old Eugene than he'd thought..._

The news that he had detested rats had been common knowledge since the day he'd arrived at the camp on Pavuvu. He had had Sidney to thank for that. 

_'You make sure you stick a bullet in anythin' with a tail.'_ He'd grinned as they had sat eating in the mess tent. _'Our Gene'll be paralytic 'til you do.'_

The others had simply laughed it off, paying the statement no heed. For why would they? The premise was so ridiculous that it couldn't possibly have been true. _Until it was._

Despite all the blood and the gore that surrounded them, Eugene Sledge was still petrified of an itty-bitty rat.

To his chagrin, from that moment forward, his phobia became a recurring butt of the company's jokes. " _L_ _ike Hammer of a rat'"_ became an established coin of phrase on Peleliu. Its definition? _I was as fucking terrified as Sledgehammer is of rats._

Eugene laughed along, for the most part, _it was ridiculous_. 

In his time on Peleliu, he found he had hardened against the day to day warfare he'd struggled with upon arrival. The bloodshed had become tolerable, the killing was acceptable, the terrors were no longer as griping, the weevil infested rice was edible. But the rats? Fuck... they remained unbearable, rendering him to a quivering mess.

He was completely and utterly phobic and no amount of time he spent in the Pacific was going to change that. 

It had taken him almost two full weeks to notice there were only two in the whole company who didn't rib him for it - Burgie and Snafu. They laughed along but never instigated; Burgie seemed too kind, Snafu seemed too antisocial to instigate _anything_ with the group.

Yet, regardless of their reasoning, Eugene appreciated it. He really did. More than anything, he realised that he _trusted_ them not to mock him the way the others did - not that he knew why. 

_Trust._

He had learnt very quickly, just how important trust was on Peleliu. If he couldn't trust his fellow Marines, they wouldn't make it out of this alive.

 _I_ _f_ _they didn't have trust; they didn't have anything._

Perhaps, that was why when Snafu told Eugene not to look behind him, he didn't.

* * *

'Sledgehammer.'

The sound of his new name had made Eugene glance up from his bible as he and Snafu sat idly in a foxhole somewhere behind the front lines.

Most of the others had been taken for various work details, the rest were ambling about close by, leaving them the only two residing in that particular dugout.

Snafu sat at the opposite end of their foxhole, gaze tensely set past his left shoulder.

'I need you to keep looking this way.' He stated, his voice uncharacteristically calm and steady. 'Can you do that for me, Eugene?'

Eugene's mouth instantly dried up and his skin prickled with an untold terror; Snafu had _never_ called him by his Christian name. His heart began to pound and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as blood immediately rushed against his ears.

What danger was afoot? _A Jap? A Grenade? A Sniper?_

He stammered. 'Wha.... why?' Sweat began to bead against his skin. He twitched slightly, licking his lips, his eyes slipped, as though making to turn around.

'SLEDGE!' Snafu's voice was sharp, dragging his attention back to him. He glared at him and Eugene felt pinned by his overwhelming gaze. 'You keep your fuckin' eyes on me, boy. _D'ya hear_?'

Eugene nodded for lack of anything else to do, watching with horror as he reached into his bandolier, withdrawing his handgun.

His heart rate thundered, each beat pounding against his chest in fear. 'Snafu, what... what the...' He stuttered, voice strained.

Like a bucket of water over his head, a chill ran through him as the prospect that Snafu had cracked and was about to execute him, firing squad style, suddenly flashed through his mind. He gaped, watching with horror as he loaded his gun. 'Snafu, I'm...'

But he didn't get a chance to finish his sentence.

'Do you trust me?' Snafu asked simply, his eyes boring sharply into Eugene's.

The question caught him by complete surprise.

He had no reason to. This man was a fucking lunatic; _a_ _well established lunatic._ He clawed gold out of dead men's mouths and emptied every final round from his carbine into rotting corpses, screaming hysterically at them in barely intelligible English. He seemed half-feral and in the fortnight that Eugene had been at war, he hadn't once seen him brush his teeth. 

Yet, to his surprise, Eugene found himself nodding, dumbly.

Without a shadow of a doubt in his mind, he knew that he could entrust his life into the hands of this strange and angry man. Despite his seeming mental instability, despite the fact that this was the longest conversation they had ever had. Or the fact, that he had never been even remotely kind to him the entire time they had been on Peleliu.

For some unbeknownst reason, Eugene trusted him - unequivocally.

After all, Snafu had given him a nickname and you didn't give nicknames to Marines you didn't care about.

‘OK then.' Snafu nodded. 'Eyes on me, Sledgehammer.’ He repeated, lifting his handgun to his eye. ‘Ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout - just...’ He cocked the barrel. 'Eyes on me.'

Eugene couldn't breathe, he cowered.

His heart continued to pound with such ferocity he pondered whether his murmur had returned or if his nerves had simply rendered him so erratic that he only _felt_ like he was dying. He stoppered his ears with his fingers, his bible still clutched tightly in his right hand. _He was more frightened in that moment than he ever had been on the front line; the terror of not knowing was the worst part._

Every fibre of his being screamed at him to turn around. To assess whatever the event that proved so dangerous that it warranted gunfire was.

But he couldn't have turned around even if he'd wanted to. He'd promised Snafu he'd face forward; he'd promised Snafu he wouldn't look. Something about that promise had still him, completely frozen him in place. Snafu trusted him not to turn around and he trusted Snafu not to blow his brains out - that was how it worked wasn't it? The Marines? 

Yet, as Snafu eyed him one final time, the thought crossed Eugene's mind that had it been Bill who had issued such an order, the first thing he would have done would have been to look.

He stared up at him helplessly, into those haunting eyes with that fixing glare. The glare that utterly terrified him, made his tummy feel funny, but also the glare that he trusted. The glare that made him feel grounded and protected... made him feel _safe_ \- both on and off the battlefield.

The trigger pulled with a resounding _crack_ and Eugene jumped, shying away as the bullet breezed past his left-hand side.

The loud squeaking that ensued, sent a panic-stricken shudder throughout his body, immediately breaking the spell he had been under. His head whipped around of its own volition; he was helpless to stop it.

' _Sledge_!’ Snafu’s cry came too late.

He was surrounded by an onslaught of packrats, the largest of which lay lifeless in the centre, Snafu’s bullet lodged within it as it leaked blood.

Eugene made an odd bleating sound that had he not been so terrified, would have rendered him humiliated. In that moment, he simply didn't have it in him to have given less of a shiny shit how he sounded. Instead, he sat frozen in his own fear - petrified by the rats' sheer size and presence - he was sure he'd seen smaller cats. They were enormous, their tails engorged, emitting clamorous squealing as they swarmed their dead comrade. Emboldened by the gunshot rather than deterred.

There must have been a dozen.... _more,_ each bigger than the last. How many there were exactly, he wasn't sure. He didn't wait long enough to find out as the feeling finally returned to his legs and he blundered to his feet.

‘GOD! JESUS! _CHRIST!_ ’

He lunged forward, with another particularly hysterical squawk that he _knew_ he'd regret later, dropping his bible into the dust as he tripped against Snafu in a bid to flee.

'Ya dumb fuck - I told ya not to look!’ He admonished, struggling beneath the weight of them, as Eugene collided against him. Barely managing to stay on his feet, he grabbed Eugene by the scruff of his collar, tossing him around his shoulder to the opposite end of the foxhole. ‘Face the other damn way.’

Eight more shots resounded; Eugene counted them. He winced, clenching his fingers painfully within his fists in a bid to counter his mortification as his skin mottled, burning with shame.

He could already hear the taunts of the others when this story got out.

Suddenly the shots died down and silence resumed.

Snafu's voice broke the air. 'You good?' He asked, hesitantly. 

Eugene nodded, still facing outwards. 'Yeah.' He muttered, attempting to lower the octaves of his voice, as much as possible, blanching as he failed spectacularly. He cleared his throat and tried again. _'Yeah.'_ _Too low._

Snafu let out a low grunt and Eugene turned fractionally to see him ripping his spade from the top of his seabag. He watched him stride to the edge of the trench, pulling himself out with practised ease, and begin scooping at the mess. Eugene caught sight of a tail and span back round with a yelp.

Snafu made a noise of discontentment, his shovel chinked lightly against the coral, swearing under his breath before the sound of his boots crunching away filled the air. There was a thud as he jumped back down into the foxhole, with a mutter of: 'Filthy bastards.'

After several moments, Eugene recognised the strike of his matches and the unmistakable sound of the first mollified breath he gave as inhaled on a cigarette. 'You can turn round now.' He announced.

Slowly, Eugene braved another glance over his shoulder.

Snafu had resumed his previous position, cigarette, indeed, clutched in his grasp.

'Y'owe me bullets.' He stated, matter-of-factly, tossing his shovel back over his seabag, a distinct drip of crimson stuck to the spade head.

Satisfied all danger had been removed, Eugene turned, he nodded dumbly in response to Snafu's statement, as he toed his way back through the foxhole, flushing from head to foot.

Retaking his own seat he reached forward to retrieve his discarded bible from the dirt, before hesitantly casting a glance to where the rats had been. They were replaced by a small stain of blood against the coral.

He lowered his gaze to his mucky knees, wiping the leather cover of his bible free from dust, as he tried to prepare himself for the onslaught of mockery that Shelton undoubtedly would throw at it.

Yet it never came.

'Dropped 'em in a ditch.' Snafu revealed casually.

Eugene glanced at him, with a twitch of his brow. 

'Some dirty fucker'd dropped a can - that's what they was after...' He continued, continuing to smoke with his eyes shut. '...moved that too... ain't none of 'em coming back, don't worry.' He took an audible inhale. 'But that why we tell ya, _keep ya shit clean._ When you're done with ya tins, lick 'em clean or rinse 'em out - _fuckin' flies and rats'd be unbearable if we all left trash about.'_ He cracked an eye. 'Got it?'

Eugene nodded silently and Snafu gave a gruntled noise, sinking his eyes shut again. Eugene surveyed him, tentatively.

He had his head resting back against the wall of the trench, eyes closed, arms folded over his chest, quietly sucking on his cigarette, seemingly unamused by the events of the last five minutes - including the way that he'd screamed like a girl.

In fact, Eugene recognised the position as Snafu's nap position... _He's going to sleep; he's not going to make fun of you._

'Thank you.' He murmured, unsure whether he was more grateful for the act of removing the rats or the unspoken agreement that they were no longer going to speak of the matter.

Snafu grunted eloquently, in response. 

A moment of silence fell before he lifted his cigarette from his lips to speak. 'Why you so scared o' 'em?' He asked, eyes remaining shut.

Eugene shrugged. 'Fell... fell into a nest of dead ones as a kid...' He responded tightly, shuddering at the memory. 'Always a bit on edge round 'em after that.'

'Huh.' Snafu answered, clearly unimpressed with the story - having hoped for something more dramatic. 'Figures.' He muttered.

'How come you ain't?' Eugene returned.

Snafu huffed a dry laugh. 'Grew up on the Bayou.' He responded. 'As many rats there as is water.' He paused, opening his eyes. 'Don't let people talk shit t'ya 'bout it.' He stated, gazing at him sternly for a moment, before settling back to sleep. 'They all scared o' somethin'.'

Eugene stared at him. 

His dark hair was thick with muck and dust, his uniform tattered and sun-bleached, his knee hung through a hole in his dungarees, his shirt was ripped at the collar - Eugene tried to picture what he'd look like clean and in civvies.

His skin was ingrained with muck rendering him several shades darker than he already was, his hands were adorned covered in nicks and burns from mortar fire, he bore a cut on his chin.

Eugene couldn't help but notice how tired he looked. Not just physically tired, but _tired._ Emotionally exhausted. Moreso than the rest of them.

He wasn't scared of Snafu at all when he was like this, he realised. He seemed calmer when it was just the two of them; more approachable.

Snafu kissed his teeth suddenly, making him jump as he tore away his gaze, humiliated at the sheer prospect of being caught gawping at him.

'Y'see a rat - I'll shoot it for ya if y'give me the bullets.' He stated and Eugene nodded, despite the fact he couldn't see him.

'Thanks, Snaf.' He responded, quietly. He paused. 'Snafu?'

Snafu grunted again, showing he was listening.

'Can I ask you a question?' Eugene asked, stiffly, half prepared to be berated simply for asking _that_ alone.

'Y'just did.' Came the measured reply.

Eugene tensed his brow, unsure whether that was a _yes,_ a _no_ or whether he was simply being pedantic. 'C... can I ask you another one?' He tried again.

'Just did.' Snafu sighed, irritatedly. 'D'ya see a _theme_ to this, Sledge?' He muttered, dryly. 'Just _fuckin' out_ with it.'

'Why'd they call you Snafu?' Eugene asked quickly, almost stumbling over his words in his haste to get the sentence out before Snafu changed his mind.

'Means Sit...' He began, but he was cut off.

'I know what it means.' Eugene answered, surveying him once again. _He wasn't **that** green. _

There was a pause. 'Then why'd'ya ask?' He replied, taking his cigarette in his hand, confusion evident in his voice.

'Cos I wanna know - why's it your nickname?' He repeated, playing with the spine of his bible absently.

Snafu scoffed. 'Have ya taken a look at me, Sledge?' He responded sarcastically, eyes sliding open. 'I'm pretty fucked in the head.'

Eugene opened his mouth to respond, his answer _can't argue with that_ sat closely against his lips, but he swallowed it down.

He cast another glance to his left eying the bloodstain again as he considered, not for the first time, that perhaps there was far more to this man than he let on. 

He looked back towards Snafu, who was watching him suspiciously.

Eugene smiled softly, drawing the conclusion he wasn't frightened of him at all. No matter how much he glared at him.

'What your name?' He asked, undeterred by the clear irritation etched on Snafu's face.

There was a pause as he stared at him, his brow twitching for a moment, failing to keep his shock at being asked such a question hidden. The look disappeared as quickly as it had arisen.

'Shelton.' He stated, simply.

'Shelton what?'

' _Shelton_.' He repeated with a roll of his eyes, aggravation evident in his voice.

Eugene frowned. 'Shelton _Shelton_?'

' _No._ ' Snafu huffed a noise that sounded like a laugh, then his face cracked into a smile. 'Shelton's my last name - _you idiot_.' He answered, his tone lacking any derision, for once.

Eugene struggled not to gape - it was rude. But Snafu never smiled; not properly.

'What's your first?' He asked.

'Merriell.' Snafu answered, sighing the smile off his face as he tried to sink his eyes closed again. 'Now stop asking me damn questions.'

Eugene ran his tongue over his teeth, thumbing the leather spine of his bible, again. ' _Merriell_...' He repeated, in a thoughtful manner.

He hadn't been expecting that _-_ he'd expected something common: Robert, James, Joe... George, maybe. Oddly, he suited Merriell.

'Is that French?' He asked, after a moment, looking back at him.

'Sledge, I'm from Louisiana and I look the way I do what's that tell you?' Snafu responded, irritably, his amiability appearing to be wearing off expeditiously.

Yet for some reason, Eugene couldn't seem to get his mouth to shut.

'I don't know I've never been to Lousiana.' He answered, honestly.

As far as he could tell, Snafu wasn't anything - _just a dark-haired Southerner._

'Est-ce un indice suffisant?' He drawled listlessly, raising his head to glare at him, holding his hands up questioningly.

Eugene blinked. 'That's French.' He concluded, with certainty.

Snafu held a thumb up, condescendingly. 'Pas de merde!' He replied, lying back. 

'Huh?' Eugene frowned, he had done Spanish at school.

Snafu rolled his eyes. 'Oui.'

Eugene nodded. 'You Creole?' He asked hesitantly, that being the first French-speaking group which came to mind.

Snafu's head shot back up with a look of furious indignation on his face, akin to one he would have given if Eugene had just shat in his mouth. Slowly, he shook his head a glare in his eye.

'I'm _Cajun_.' He stated, as though it were obvious.

Eugene nodded, dumbly.

'We came from England.' He added instantly before a blush ran across his skin. _WHY?!_ He thought, ruefully. _As though that matters! As though Snafu would care!_

He cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment. 

Snafu regarded him with a smirk. 'Bet you were on the goddamn Mayflower.'

'No, we were on The Dove...' He answered, blanching immediately, as his verbal diarrhoea continued. He turned, reaching into his pack for something to eat, hoping the act would somehow shut him up. 'Came in the 1680's' 

_For Heaven's Sake - why are you still talking?_ He wanted to scream at himself.

Snafu gave a scoff, shaking his head as he cast ash from his cigarette.

' _Jesus Christ_.' He muttered, bemusedly. He glanced at him. 'Where you come from Eugene Sledge? You a 'Bama boy, ain't ya?'

'Mobile.' He answered, turning the pack of crackers over in his hands. Maybe he hadn't made such a fool of himself.

Snafu regarded him.

'Ya Daddy...'

He looked him up and down with an eye that made Eugene feel exposed enough to want to shield himself. His eyes settled on the signet ring on his finger, then to the handgun he held on his bandolier.

'He ain't shy of a dime...' Snafu concluded. 'Doctor? Businessman? Politician?' He listed thoughtfully, taking a drag of his cigarette. He glanced back to Eugene's face. 'You too soft to be the son of a politician...'

Eugene was unsure whether or not he was being insulted.

'Not business neither, too old money for that... you carry y'self proper.'

He nodded to himself. 'He a doctor, ain't he?'

Eugene blinked, mouth gaping slightly, feeling more impressed at his accurate scrutiny than he felt he should have done. 'How the hell...'

Snafu scoffed. 'I read people.' He gazed at him with an odd look before nodding to himself, again. 'You're gonna be fine.' He stated.

Eugene swallowed.

He could read people too, at least he'd surmised he could read _Shelton._

_Shelton and Snafu were very different people._

_Shelton shot rats for scared Boots._

_Snafu shot corpses for himself._

_Shelton let him ask questions._

_Snafu played dentist with the dead._

He preferred Shelton by a country mile.

Eugene swallowed.

_You're gonna be fine._

He'd heard that statement before - they had been Sidney's exact words when they sat on the beach at Pavuvu. Yet whilst then the words had given him an overwhelming sense of foreboding, he found Shelton's use of the phrase... comforting? 

Whether he'd intended them to settle that way or not, Eugene carried Shelton's assurances with him when they moved out that afternoon.

He held onto them until they were relieved back to a rest camp, a week later.

To his utter amazement, the incident with the rats had stayed between himself and Shelton.

It was only when he made the mistake of revealing the event to Bill, that word of the tale eventually leaked around the rest of the company, _mortifyingly_. 

Shelton had been less than impressed when Bill had tried to rib him for it; denoting him as 'Sledgehammer's gun-totin' guardian.'

However, never one to be on the lower foot, Shelton had recovered himself, rounding on him with his harrowing stare before assuring him - _the only person_ he was intending to guard was Leyden's little sister and she loved his gun, _plenty_. It had stuck after that, _Snafu was fucking Ballpeen's sister._

Eugene was positive that Bill regretted ever baiting him in the first place - the graphic descriptions of his sister's debaucheries growing filthier and more sordid each time the topic was broached.

Just as quickly as Eugene's rat phobia had grown to become the butt of each joke; it was forgotten as the men moved onto the next target.

When Shelton had gone several days without so much as speaking to him, Eugene surmised that he had broken some unspoken code by repeating their altercation to their fellow Marines - Bill's ribbing attempts having rendered him a further social outcast. 

He was rendered speechless upon their arrival at camp when Burgie asked him where he was going when he carried on past the tent that he, Shelton and De L'Eau made for. With a beckoning hand, he assured him there were enough bunks for all of them.

Eugene was perturbed by the way his stomach flipped when Shelton had looked at him, agreeing with an indifferent _'I guess there's room.'_

He and Leyden had scuttled in gratefully behind them, dropping their packs onto the spare racks, not daring to utter a word for fear the invitation would be revoked.

Just like that, they weren't Boots anymore, they were part of the squad.

In the days that followed, Eugene relished in the showers, the hot food and the uninterrupted sleep. It shocked him how much of a difference a good wash and clean uniform had on his morale. He began to feel more like _Eugene_ , again. 

All too soon, K-Company received the news they had been dreading. The order that they were moving out in 48-hours.

Hell was calling - she wanted her boys back.

The platoon responded in typical Marine fashion - by getting as drunk as possible on _truly awful_ bootleg hooch that a Corporal from Love Company had brewed.

By lights out, most had passed out on the beach, rendering Shelton and Eugene the only ones in their tent. Burgie, De L'Eau and Leyden had zonked out somewhere in the sand.

It was the unfamiliar laugh that roused Shelton from his dreamless sleep, the unexpected intrusion sobering him from any alcohol left in his system. He shot up, squinting through the darkness.

He recognised the trespasser to be one of the boys from their company... _was it Redifer? Yes, it fucking was._

'The fuck you doing?' He hissed, dryly. 'Get the hell outta my tent!'

Redifer turned to him, raising a finger to his lips in response, in a plea to keep Shelton quiet.

'Got a surprise for Sledgehammer.' He slurred, a grin plastered to his face.

Shelton stared at him in confusion, settling up on his elbows, his dog tags chinking against his sternum. 'What're you _talkin'_ 'bout?' He asked, blearily, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Lifting his hand, Redifer displayed a dead rat, dangling from his pinched fingertips.

'Got him a nice little alarm clock.' He stated, giggling, again.

Immediately, all remnants of sleep were gone from Shelton's body, replaced by an odd turning in his stomach. He licked his lip, sitting up.

He glanced towards Eugene's sleeping body.

A tuft of his clean hair was visible through the darkness, most of his body obscured from view as he lay tucked beneath his covers in the foetal position. His face arched over into his chest, peaceful after several hours of unfamiliar alcohol-induced tossing and turning. He wouldn't have many more opportunities to sleep in a bed, for a while - _hell, that was if he even made it back_. 

Shelton envisaged Eugene's frustrated face scrubbing the oil drums back on Pavuvu, before he'd ever even tasted war.

He'd stripped to his waist and leaking with sweat beneath the burning Pacific sun. His back and shoulders shone a painful scarlet from the heat, yet he had persevered with dogged obstinance, scouring at his damn drum until it gleamed - long after the other two had quit.

He had tossed the scrubbing brush at Shelton as he passed, muttering beneath his breath, with a look of something in his eye that he hadn't been able to place.

He had been left with an overwhelming feeling - _t_ _here was something about this kid._

That something had been cemented the second Eugene's face had appeared above him on the airfield; that same look of defiance - _I ain't quitting on you._

It had led to Shelton keeping one eye on him the entire time they were in-country; same as he did with Burgie and Jay.

It also drew him to the immediate knowledge he would not entertain the notion of traumatising him as he slept for even a single moment.

Shelton loved to fuck with the Boots. He lived for pranks, loved a joke - especially at someone else's expense.

But this? No goddamn way. _Not against Eugene._

He kissed his teeth, lowly. 'John Redifer.' He hissed, his voice like gravel. 'You have five seconds t'get the fuck outta my bunk 'fore I take that rat and shove it down ya goddamn throat - d'ya understand?'

'Lighten the fuck up, Snaf.' Redifer responded, waving dismissively as turned his back on him, attempting to cross the tent to Eugene. 'It's just a joke.'

Shelton was on his feet in less than a second and threw the punch that floored Redifer in less than three, inadvertently knocking him out cold.

Eugene shot up with a terrified grunt at the noise, crying out and flailing for his rifle, in fright.

'Sledge, calm the fuck down!' Shelton responded sharply, grasping the dropped rat in one hand and a passed out Redifer in the other and hauling them both towards the door. 

'What in the hell's goin' on?' He demanded, reaching to light his oil lamp that sat beside his rack on an upturned Ammo Crate.

Shelton barely had time to shove the rat beneath his arm, shielding it from Eugene's frame of sight, before the tent illuminated with light.

'Redifer here just found himself in the wrong tent.' He lied, as he dragged a semi-conscious Redifer by the scruff of his shirt towards the door.

Eugene squinted in utter confusion before recoiling in horror. 'Snafu, put some pants on - _Jesus_!' 

Shelton clicked his tongue, glancing down briefly at his uncovered appendage. In his bid to prevent the rodent attack, he had failed to remember (or to care) that he'd stripped bollock naked before drunkenly falling into bed however many hours earlier.

'Like what you see, Sledgehammer?' He quipped. 'Y'Momma did.'

Eugene averted his gaze with a disgusted grunt, raising his middle finger in response.

Shelton forced a laugh before shouldering open the screen door tossing, a now groaning, Redifer into the sand outside. His expression hardened the moment it shut behind him. He grabbed the rat, shoving it forcefully against Redifer's gaping mouth. He flew up retching, batting it away repulsively.

'Not so fuckin' _funny_ now is it?' He hissed, seethingly, before yanking the rat away and dropping it into the sand beside them. He caught him tightly by the front of his utility shirt, anchoring their faces together to ensure his warning was heeded 'This shit with the rats ends now, _y'hear me?_ ' 

Redifer gasped, eyes wide. 

'It were funny while it lasted; now move ont'a someone else - no more makin' fun'a him. From now on - you fuck with him; _you fuck with me_.' He laughed, lowly, teeth clenched aggressively. 'And trust me, Boo, you _don't_ wanna _fuck with me..._ I see you come near twenty feet of him even _mentionin'_ a rat I'll shove my KA-BAR through ya goddamn eye - _got it_?' 

Redifer nodded, wide-eyed. It was rare that Shelton went _Full Snafu_. In fact, _Full Snafu_ so seldom appeared that his presence was almost mythical to those who hadn't witnessed it.

But John Redifer was under no illusion as to what he had just witnessed.

This wasn't a threat; this was a promise.

Shelton scoffed, dropping Redifer. 'Tell all ya fuckin' friends.' He added, climbing to his feet. He paused at the door; pointing to the rat lying beside Redifer in the dirt. 'I don't hafta fuckin' tell ya to get rid of that, _neither_.'

He slammed the door shut with such force that it bounced behind him.

'In God's name was that about?!' Eugene hissed, keeping his eyes averted.

'John Redifer is an asshole.' Shelton answered, brushing his knees and thighs down of sand before climbing back into his bunk. 'Thinks he can come in 'n' take what I owe him from poker when I sleep - _bastard_.' He lied. 'Now put that fuckin' light out and go back to bed - you're keepin' me up.'

'I'm... you...' Eugene stammered, bewildered. 

'Gene, shut the _fuck up_.' He muttered, distantly, faking an exaggerated yawn.

With a huff, Eugene leant over and blew out the candle. 'Jesus, you're...' He trailed off.

Silence descended for a moment as Shelton pensively stared at his through the cover of darkness, his heart thumping.

'We need to get y'over that rat problem.' He muttered, quietly. 'So next time, you're gonna watch as I shoot 'em, got it?' 

He heard Eugene stutter timidly in response.

A grip of guilt fluttered through him as he recalled his promise from the previous week. Yet he forced it down, resolving he would prefer to break his word than risk Eugene being fucked about with.

'Time after that, I'ma help you shoot 'em.' He continued. 'Time after that, I'll stay with ya as you shoot 'em... time after that you're on your own.'

'Why?' Eugene murmured, after a moment.

 _Because I might not always be here to shoot 'em for you._ 'Cos you ain't a damn baby and I ain't your Momma.' He snapped.

Eugene huffed. 'You're an asshole.' He muttered quietly, burying his face back into his pillow. 

Shelton lay silently, staring up at the overhead until he heard Eugene's breathing deepen and return to normal.

_If only you knew._

Slowly, he closed his eyes, keeping one ear on the alert for any more intruders who may wish to invade the safety of their tent, that night.

* * *

**In the whole two years that they were at war; Eugene never shot a single rat. Not one.**

**But according to his tallies, he did end up owing Shelton 186 bullets by the end of Peking.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I'd love to know what you think!
> 
> * Title is an excerpt from the poem 'I am Afraid' by Autumn Stott. *


	2. Mais Cher Ami let me tell you, a Cajun man he's good and true

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eugene fights for Shelton.
> 
> Boots are the worst, that's already established. 
> 
> But one Boot learns the hard way - you don't fuck with Shelton. Not when Eugene is around.

_‘What would you eat right now if you could eat anything?’_

The sky glared red against Shelton's eyelids as he lay basking beneath the final rays of the late afternoon sun, almost half asleep when the sound of their newest annoyance broke his tranquillity.

With a grunt of irritation, he blinked an eye open, casting an apathetic glance towards the source of his interruption - one of the newest replacements sat at the opposite end of their foxhole gazing around at them expectantly.

'The Boot', in question, couldn't have been much older than twenty, with an entitled expression, a ridiculous chevron moustache that wouldn't last a week and a name that Shelton simply couldn't be bothered to remember.

There was nothing even remotely spectacular about this new recruit and he would serve absolutely no purpose during his time with them other than to be the source of Shelton's amusement. He intended to cash in on every possible moment. 

He stretched out, resting his head back against his helmet, pleasantly warmed beneath the final glows of sunlight.

‘Boo, if you wanna lick my asshole you just have to ask.’ He drawled, a lilt in his voice.

Burgie snorted derisively, in response. Shelton smirked, relishing in the approval.

‘I’m serious.’ The Boot persisted, rolling a ration tin between his hands with a repulsed expression on his face. ‘I’m so _sick_ of dog food in a can.’

 _Shutting the fuck up sure ain't a lesson they teach in boot camp,_ he mused.

‘You hear this boy?’ Shelton muttered at no one in particular. ‘Fucking ain’t even here til lunchtime and he complainin’.’

'You should've been here a couple of months ago.' Burgie responded, not looking up from his notebook where he was perfecting a letter to Florence. 'We ain't have any water let alone food.'

The Boot shook his head, disgustedly. 'That's inhumane.' 

Eugene tittered from Shelton's left-hand side, without looking up from his bible. ' _Semper Fi_.' He interjected, from around his cigarette.

Shelton smirked, his eyes sinking back closed, assuming that was all to be said on the matter - he was wrong.

‘I just thought…’ The Boot trailed off. ‘Like I thought we’d get hot food brought to us.’

'C's ain't usually brought out on the front line.' Burgie answered, placing his notebook back into his breast pocket. 'Hard to distribute on the front line, they prefer tins s'easier that way.'

'No, I mean... like a _proper balanced meal._ ' He stated. 'I didn't think it'd be as bad as the shit we got at Bootcamp.'

Shelton's eyes sprang open of their own volition as he raised his head to stare at The Boot, pulling a face of sheer bewilderment as he attempted to process the words that had come out of his mouth. ‘We at war, you _do_ know that?' He asked incredulously. 'This ain’t the Four Seasons, honey bun - food's _supposed_ t'be awful.’

Burgie let out a noise of sheer disbelief as he shook his head; _fuck this kid wasn't even green, he was plain stupid._

'Where'd they train you?' He asked, incredulously.

The Boot's chest swelled. 'Pendleton.' He stated; as though that gave him a superior edge.

'Not Kansas, then?' Shelton muttered and Eugene let out a loud bark of laughter in response.

With a grin on his lips, Shelton rolled his head towards him. 'Hey, Sledgehammer?'

‘Hmm?’ Came the response, as he pulled his cigarette from his lips, looking up.

‘When was the last time you had food that didn’t come from a can?’ He asked, with mock intrigue.

Eugene huffed a dry scoff. ‘Feels like 1942.’ He stated, with a smirk. ‘Real time?’ He pulled a face. ‘Month? Bit longer?’

Shelton rolled his eyes back towards The Boot. ‘How long’s it been since you had a hot meal, _Meenoo_?’ He asked.

The Boot sucked his teeth irritably. ‘My name’s Elliot.’ He responded, stiffly, evading the question.

‘Not as long as poor Sledgehammer over here, then.’ Shelton rebuked, resting his head back against his helmet again. ‘He so hungry he eats baby food his Mama sends him.’

Burgie gave a snort and Eugene chuckled lowly.

‘It travels well.’ He objected, holding his hand out defensively, the snub of pencil he'd been writing with still clutched tightly between his fingers. ‘Besides, you practically fought me over those strained pears.’

Shelton chuckled lowly, casting his glance back towards him.

Eugene was what one may regard ‘a typical gentleman’, he spoke nicely when it mattered, he was respectful about ladies and he did not drop his ‘g’s.

Shelton was everything Eugene was not and visa versa.

Yet that didn’t stop him sharing his care packages from home with him once he had realised that he never received any of his own, no matter how precious the contents. Be it baby food, cigarettes, chocolates, pencils or that delightful picture of his cousin on her wedding day - Eugene always shared.

* * *

Eugene had stared at him for a long time after they had received their mail in the early days on Peleliu. Shelton had _yet again,_ received nothing - not that he had been expecting otherwise.

From the corner of his eye, he had recognised the quizzical expression on Eugene's face as he struggled to process something.

'Need somethin', Sledge?' He asked his cigarette, watching intently how the embers strayed from the cherry in the breeze.

'H'come y'ain't ever get mail?' He blundered, tripping over his words in his haste to spit the question out before he lost his nerve.

Shelton glanced at him, taking in the look of genuine intrigue on his face.

A smile twitched against his lips, before he managed to suppress it behind his cigarette. _He didn't have anyone in his life that would send a letter up the street to him; never mind halfway around the world._

'Gotta have people willin' t'send y'shit to get mail, Sledgehammer.' He responded, watching his expression closely.

Like the good Southern boy he was, Eugene immediately flushed a deep crimson beneath the muck and grime that adorned his skin, the mottling reaching beneath his utility shirt. 

'I'm sorry.' He blustered. 'That was so rude of me... ain't nothin' to do with me.'

Shelton smirked, relishing in his uncomfortableness. 'Ya Doctor Daddy'd be very disappointed in ya, Gene.' He quipped. 'Noseyin' in on other folks' business.' 

He smoked several more drags, watching Eugene out of the corner of his eye as he basked in his own mortification. He flicked his cigarette away just as something heavy landed in his lap with a _thud._

His brow twitched as he reached for the object, recognising the _Gerber Baby Food_ label. He glanced up at Eugene, with a confused expression.

'You can have that.' Eugene stated, pointing to it. 'D'you like that one?'

Shelton blinked at him, a smirk pulling at his lips. 'I can't say I'm too up to date on my favourite baby food.' He answered.

Eugene rolled his eyes. 'They taste normal.' He rebuked. 'If a little pureed.'

Shelton nodded slowly, lowering his gaze and studying the label closely - irritatingly, there was no image on the packaging.

He glanced back up, humiliated to see Eugene watching him expectantly for some indication of his acceptance. It took every ounce of control he had not to flush beneath his scrutiny. He usually drew no attention to his literacy, or lack-thereof, yet it was times like this that such avoidance was impossible. 

He glared at the label miserably, desperately preventing himself from sounding the letters out. _He could make out a P at the start or was it a D? No, it was definitely a P... what came next? A U maybe? Oh shit, was that a D?_ _Fuck this._

He was a breath away from launching the baby food back towards Eugene with some sneer about his immaturity before he spoke first.

'Or you can have this one?' He countered suddenly, holding up the other jar in his grasp. 'I like 'em both, so whichever you prefer.'

Shelton blinked.

'What's that one?' He asked, pointing towards Eugene's hands, hoping he was sat far enough away for the question not to raise suspicion. 

'Strained pears.' He stated, holding it out demonstratively. 'So it's up to you - pears or pudding...'

_Pudding. He would never have got that in a million years._

Shelton frowned at him, confusedly. No one _ever_ offered him choices, no one ever offered him anything.

He felt overwhelmed. 'I like pears.' He answered hesitantly, after a moment, a little perplexed with the entire situation.

Eugene nodded, leaning over and plucking the jar from Shelton's grasp before passing him the pears.

'Good choice.' He answered, with a grin. He pointed to the tin. 'Leave it in the sun some.' He directed. 'Let it go warm and it's like the fillin' of a pie - c'ept without the crust.'

'I ain't so much a fan of crust.' Shelton answered, lightly and Eugene grinned at him.

'It's like a match made in heaven then.' He murmured, untwisting his own jar lid.

_He'd been right; it was like pie filling - it was also the first none-rationed food he'd eaten in over a year._

* * *

Shelton smirked lightly to himself before raising his gaze back to Eugene.

‘Pears weren’t as good as the v’nilla puddin’.’ He stated dryly.

Eugene rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll be sure to let her know.’

‘Come on.’ This Boot was persistent. ‘We’re grown men. Talk of eatin’ baby food. Only baby food we should be eating is titties.’

Eugene pulled a face and Shelton suppressed a laugh; _for a Marine, he could be such a damn prude._

He tutted loudly; antagonising the Boots never failed to be his favourite pass time.

‘Now there’s no need to be so vulgar, Meenoo.’ He rebuked, with a shake of his head.

The Boot glared at him in response; a retort on the cusp of his lips as Eugene snapped his bible closed.

‘I’ll bite.’ He interjected.

‘On the titties?’ Shelton asked, lightly, a smile toying on his lips. ‘Make sure you got your cootie shots first, Gene.’

A boot collided with his thigh as Eugene kicked him, jovially.

He rubbed the point of impact, feeling gristly mud rub from his trousers to his gritty palms. 'Feisty.’ He murmured, blowing a kiss at him.

Burgie rolled his eyes, shaking his head with an amused smile on his lips.

Eugene continued, undeterred. ‘If I could have _anything_ right now.’ He paused and Shelton rolled his head back towards him, reopening his eyes.

He watched with intrigue, as Eugene pondered the prospect.

They had so very little, yet Eugene shared regardless. If the option to provide him with the food he wanted had existed on this godforsaken island, Shelton would have walked a day and a night to get it for him. _Not that he would ever have admitted that._

‘I'd have Barbecue... don't care what it is... just something Barbecued, chucked on a plate with a side of collard greens... some short ribs... all smoked and falling apart... Jesus.' A small smile played across his face at the thought of such an extravagant prospect. 'Then Peach Cobbler for afters – ice cream _and_ cream.’

Shelton smiled. ‘Take the boy outta ‘Bama, but can’t take the ‘Bama out the boy.’ He drawled, affectionately.

Eugene grinned at him. 'Yeah? What about you?'

He pulled a face.

It was a bizarre notion; the thought of choosing their own food.

It made them seem human; like they were more than ravaged military fodder who eagerly inhaled infested rice and swill from cans. Reminded them that they were men with likes and wants and needs. Reminded them they had opinions. It was easy to forget that; especially out here.

Food had never phased him, not really. It had been more of a novelty to him growing up; decent food, anyway. He could go for a few days without eating before it really bothered him; often he'd had to. On the whole, he found he preferred it that way. A full belly made him sedentary, docile, vulnerable. But hunger kept him awake, alert.

Yet he pondered the question all the same.

‘I’d let a Jap stick a chopstick up my ass for a hunk o'Boudin.’ He stated. ‘Sprinkle o'Tobasco, some crackers... dab of mustard, maybe.’

‘What’s Boudin?’ The Boot asked.

Shelton leaned back. 'It's like a sausage - ground meat, rice'n shit all trussed up in casin'.'

Eugene snorted, derisively. 'Sounds _delightful.'_

Shelton kicked him, suppressing a smirk, as Burgie let out a chuckle at their antics.

‘'s'a shit game anyways.' He answered.

'No you got to pick two courses - that's the rules!' Eugene rebuked, fully enjoying his ribbing. 'What you gonna follow up your shitty sausage with?'

He rolled his eyes. 'That's a piece of piss.' 

'You're all for the bodily fluids - huh, Snaf?' Burgie quipped.

Eugene let out a light laugh and even The Boot smiled.

Shelton ignored them.

'Beignets to follow - _absolutely covered_ in a fuck tonne of powdered sugar.' He answered, folding his arms over his chest.

Burgie's brow twitched. ‘What’s Beignets?’ He asked.

Eugene's response was instant. ‘Like a donut without the hole.’ He stated, his lighter chinking as he lit another cigarette.

‘How you know ‘bout Beignets?’ Shelton asked, a bemused smile on his face.

‘There’s a French patisserie in Montgomery, we got family there - used to go with my Mother when we were kids.’ Eugene stated. 

Shelton huffed a laugh and shook his head - _only Eugene._

'You ain't had Cajun Beignets, then.' He pointed out. 'You just had that French shit - ain't no comparison, Sledgehammer.'

'Yeah?' Eugene asked, taking a heavy drag. 'Well, after we done with this shit you can show me the best place to get one.'

He said it so casually that the statement took Shelton by surprise. He swallowed.

The thought of Eugene in a world without war was a notion that he simply did not have the strength to conceive.

‘Reckon Momma Sledge can put a Beignet in a tin?’ Shelton asked, lightly, diverting the topic. 'Cajun or na?'

Eugene scoffed. ‘I’ll be sure to ask.’ He stated. ‘What ‘bout you Burgie?’

Burgie sucked his teeth lightly, keeping his eyes closed as he warmed his face against the rapidly sinking sun.

‘I can’t talk of food.’ Burgie responded. ‘I’d damn right start crying at the thought of my Mom’s Biscuits and Gravy.’

The three men groaned collectively.

‘I could just ea…’ The Boot began, his face curling into a determined smile, yet Shelton waved his hand, dismissively.

‘No - we finished now, Meenoo.’ Shelton interrupted firmly, pulling himself to his feet, causing a plume of dust to rise in his wake. ‘I gotta take a leak. If I get my ass shot off best hope heaven have Beignet.’ He crouched slightly as he pulled himself out the foxhole, a force of habit. ‘If not I’ll be coming right back to you fuckers.’

Several moments passed before The Boot spoke again.

‘God, he’s an asshole.’ He muttered, rolling the offensive ration can between his hands.

Eugene smirked, teeth curled around his cigarette as he returned to daubing in his bible.

‘That he is.’ He agreed.

‘Biggest asshole this side of Honolulu.’ Burgie agreed.

‘Why stop there?’ Eugene rebutted and Burgie laughed, heartily.

‘The fuck’s he calling me _Meenoo_ for?!’ The Boot continued, glaring to the patch of foxhole from which Shelton had disappeared. Seemingly oblivious to the comradery that existed between the three existing marines. ‘What’s a Meenoo?’

Eugene smirked. ‘It’ll be some Cajun shit….’ He trailed off. ‘Hey, Snaf?’ He called loudly.

 _‘Yeah?’_ Came the reply.

‘What’s a Meenoo?’

Shelton cackled in response. ‘Means li'l kitty cat.’ He responded, obscured from vision as he relieved himself. ‘He wanna act like a little pussy bitch, he’s gon’ get called as such.’

Eugene rolled his eyes. ‘There’s your answer.’ He stated.

Burgie tittered. 'He'll get bored eventually.' He assured him, with a genial elbow to the ribs. 'Just ride it out... he's the same with all the boots... he was an asshole to Sledgehammer, too.'

'I had to sleep in a rack with Rudiger from Infantry.' He agreed. 'Y'know with...'

'The yellow feet.' He and Burgie chorused.

'We should all be in it together.' The Boot muttered, belligerently. 'He ain't got no right talkin' down to people.'

Burgie huffed. 'Wait til you been here a few months.' He stated. 'You'll change ya mind.'

Eugene scoffed in agreement.

'He still ain't got the right.' The Boot scowled. ‘Fucking _Coon-Ass_.’

There was an awful, pained moment as the slur settled in the foxhole, immediately shattering the jovial bubble that had surrounded them.

Eugene’s reaction was visceral.

‘The fuck did you just call him?!’ He demanded, his bible tumbling to the dust as he launched himself across the foxhole towards The Boot, grabbing him by the front of his shirt, pulling him taught against him, the fabric strained to a point of tearing.

‘GENE!’ Burgie interjected, kicking out at him. He ignored him.

The Boot spluttered in response, completely taken aback by the change in demeanour of the previously amiable Marine, with whom he had spent the afternoon sharing his foxhole. His confusion only served to antagonise Eugene further. 

He shook him furiously. 'I said _THE FUCK DID YOU JUST CALL HIM?!'_ He repeated, knocking The Boot's helmet off his head before grabbing him tightly by the throat.

He choked beneath his grasp, retching against the lack of air.

'Sledge, _that's enough_ _!_ ' Burgie snapped, yanking him by the back of his dungarees.

Eugene relinquished him, shoving him backwards against the foxhole as he coughed, desperately hawking air back into his lungs. He huffed a dry laugh before leaning over him, yanking another handful of The Boot's shirt back towards him to ensure he was listening. The Boot gaped, completely terror-stricken.

‘I ever hear you call him _anything_ like that again, never mind the fucking Japs. I’ll kill you. Understand?’

He nodded, desperately.

Eugene scoffed, tossing him away before standing back on his heels with practised ease, cigarette still clutched between his lips. He glared down at him, kicking out at his discarded helmet sending it sprawling through the dust with his filthy boot. Burgie craned his neck to ensure that no senior officers had witnessed the altercation.

‘Get the fuck out the foxhole.’ Eugene hissed, turning back towards his previously abandoned space on the opposite side of the foxhole. 

'Wha... wha...' The Boot took several gasping breaths, turning a deep shade of scarlet at being cast out by an Old Breed on his first afternoon in-country. He glanced towards Burgie for some kind of support.

He shrugged in response. 'You ain't sittin' in here callin' Snaf a Coon-Ass.' He agreed, reaching into his pack and withdrawing the shovel he carried there before tossing it towards him.

'Get diggin' y'ugly prick.' Eugene retorted, spitting at him as he hurried to collect his things. He wrenched his bible from the dirt, wiping it against his trouser leg, furiously. 

Burgie's brow twitched; _Eugene hated spitting._

The aforementioned ration tin was the final possession to be crammed back into his bag as he struggled to his feet, gaze cast firmly downwards as he grabbed hold of the shovel. 

‘Five feet away from a hole.’ Burgie reminded him, lighting his own cigarette, he glanced towards Eugene with a smirk. ‘More for your own safety than anything else.’

‘I go take a piss and I miss all the fun.’ Shelton interjected with an exaggerated sigh, reappearing at the head of the foxhole as he tucked his shirt back into his dungarees.

It was a lie.

He hadn't missed anything, he'd heard the entire altercation, even witnessing Eugene hurl himself towards the poor kid at his defence.

In truth, he wasn't all that bothered; he'd been called a hell of a lot worse by a hell of a lot more important people. 

At the end of the day, he _was_ a Coon-Ass. It was a badge he wore with pride, Coon-Ass was his blood, his family, his history. 

If you asked him, he could tell you all about his roots.

He could tell you how he came from a long line of healers on his Daddy's side, how one of his great-something Grandfather's had defended Fort Bute with his dying breath, how an Uncle, who had been enslaved on a plantation, torched the entire damn place to the ground before disappearing into the night never to be heard of again. 

As far as Shelton was concerned, everything about his past had been noble; wholesome to a degree... maybe not in a conventional sense, but he always had a good story. It was only from his parents that everything had started to fuck up.

No, his roots were something to be proud of. After all, his roots were all he had left, all he would have left behind... _given time._ He had long given up on a future. 

He wasn't going home; he'd resigned himself to that a long time ago. Importantly, he'd made his peace with that a long time ago, too.

He would die out on some battlefield with a Jap bullet in his skull and his blood spilling out in the dirt in the name of democracy. 

He would never have the chance to drink terrible whiskey in a bar back stateside, he would never get the chance to take flowers to his Momma's grave and sit and talk awhile, go dancing with his friends, spend another Mardi Gras fucked off his face on terrible Pernod, he would never get to eat another chunk of Boudin... he most certainly would never get the chance to take Eugene fucking Sledge to get a Beignet.

He wouldn't get a chance to do very much else, ever again.

Shelton held onto his past with both hands because he had never hoped for a future; never dared to.

So no, Coon-Ass didn't bother him in the slightest.

What had made him pause behind the coral, what kept him silent, from shouting out his own abuse in response - mainly about The Boot's terrible moustache - had been Eugene's gut rage.

In truth, he didn’t think he’d ever heard him shout so angrily, not in combat, not at anyone’s death. Not at nothing. Not for nobody. Especially not him.

* * *

He'd seen a similar look in Eugene's eye, only once. 

They had been sheltering from the night time heat in a bombed-out cave on Bloody Nose Ridge when his voice had drifted through the silence.

'Why d'you do it?' Eugene had asked, quietly.

Shelton studied the burning cherry of his cigarette intently as he leant against the rocky wall. 'Do what?' He asked, stiffly. _He knew exactly what._

'Take their teeth.' Came the response.

He huffed a dry laugh.

The sight of Eugene poised above the dead Japanese soldier with his KA-BAR clutched in his shaking hand, not inches from descending into his level of depravity was ingrained on his memory. It was an image he didn't think he would ever be able to forget. Moreover, it rendered a strange feeling in his stomach that he was not used to. Eugene had learnt such behaviour from him.

If Shelton didn't know better; he would think that feeling were guilt.

When he did it it was callous; when Eugene attempted it it was a damn sacrilege.

'Same reason you were gonna do it.' He shrugged, as though it wasn't important, as though it didn't matter. He watched the smoke of his cigarette rise through the air. 'Told you before - thirty bucks an ounce, Sledgehammer.' 

There was another silence.

'That ain't why I wanted to do it.' Eugene answered, his eyes set his hands as he picked a strand of fabric hanging from his dungarees.

Shelton cast his gaze towards him.

His Daddy used to beat him for staring at people. Long, hard and angry strokes that were powered by genuine resentment yet masked as discipline. He tended not to look at people very much anymore; it was a force of habit.

Then again, it had been a very long time since he had been afraid of his Daddy and he reasoned that halfway across the world was far enough to escape, even the chance, of such a whooping. Besides, Eugene was an exception. 

After several moments, Eugene glanced up, feeling his scrupulous eyes upon him. To Shelton's genuine surprise, he did not look away.

Not even when he gave him his very best glare.

No, Eugene only stared back. 

Shelton had always been good at reading people; he found he was _especially good_ at reading Eugene Sledge.

The kid loved to wander round all prim and proper like he was too scared to say 'boo' to a Goose. He knew better than that. 

No, Eugene wasn't scared of very much... and he most certainly was no longer afraid of him. Shelton liked that.

'Why'd'you do it then?' He asked, doing his best to sound disinterested. _No point getting attached, after all._

Eugene huffed lightly, finally lowering his eyes back to his knees.

After several long seconds of silence had passed, Shelton surmised he no longer wished to talk on the matter or simply had no answer to give. He got that; he really did. Sometimes there were no words to articulate such feelings.

He had his gaze settled back on his cigarette by the time Eugene eventually spoke again.

'They killed Ack-Ack.' He murmured stiffly, sounding genuinely distraught. 'Hillbilly; Haney... Oswalt... Daniels... _everyone..._ then they fucked with Bill.' He trailed off. 'They fucked with Bill and it was just one step too far... I wanted to fuck with them... see how they liked it.'

Shelton's eyes flicked towards him. He bit down on his lower lip, sucking his teeth and he rolled his palms together.

_He hadn't been expecting that._

'Sledge...' He trailed off.

 _F_ _uck, he was shit at this._.

'W... what they did t'Ack-Ack... to Haney... Hillbilly... _Bill_... all of 'em...' He licked his lip. 'It wan't personal... they didn't go roun' sayin' him, him, him... it just _happened_ that way...' He looked down at his knees. 'F'you to go round wantin' revenge or t'get even... that ain't...' He looked back at Eugene, surprised to see him watching him intently. 'That ain't you, Gene.' He said, finally. 'It's a nasty, slippery slope and once you get on it, there's no gettin' off... d'you get me?'

_'Cos you ending up like me would be more devastatin' than losin' this damn war._

Eugene nodded, slowly. 

'So wipe that shit out your head.' Shelton surmised, eloquently, resting his head back against the coral wall.

The sounds of Burgie and Jay snoring between them, echoed around the inlet. 

'You made it up.' Eugene stated, tentatively. ''Bout the germs... didn't you? They ain't got germs.'

A smirk toyed at Shelton's lips. 

_This boy wasn't stupid._

'Tell you what, Sledgehammer.' He responded. 'Go stick your hand in a Nip's mouth an' find out.' 

Eugene huffed a laugh. 'You're such an asshole.' He quipped.

'Yeah?' He asked. 

Eugene nodded. 

* * *

‘Snaf, how you say _fucking prick_ in Cajun?’ Eugene asked belligerently, as Shelton made to jump back down into the foxhole.

‘That would be _putain de bite.’_ He answered, with a grin, sliding into the dugout as the Boot wordlessly scrambled up, dirt flicking behind him. ‘Words to that affect. Couldn’t say for certain. My Coonass too stupid.’

The Boot glared at him angrily, yet said nothing, casting one last tentative look over his shoulder at Eugene before he scuttled out of sight. Fearful of any further assaults.

‘Putain de bites the fucking dust!’ Eugene called, viciously. ‘He’s an asshole but he’s the best gunner in the regiment! Without him, you’ve just signed your own death warrant, ya dumb fuck!’

‘Catch ya later, Meenoo!’ Shelton bade, waving after him.

He sighed, settling back in his seat as he reached for his cigarette. ‘You really do flatter me, Sledgehammer.’ He stated, placing one into his mouth.

‘Don’t get smart.’ Eugene responded, gruffly. ‘I fuckin’ _hate_ Boots.’

Shelton lit it with a grin. ‘Yeah?’ He asked. 'You ain't mad at me for kickin' you out the bunk no more then?'

Eugene smirked, shaking his head. 'Na.' He answered, attempting to wipe a thick layer of muck from the pages of his bible.

Silently, Shelton reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief, damp, grubby and mostly used. He held it out.

'Gene.'

He looked up, a terse expression on his face before recognising what was in his hand. With a grateful smile, he reached forward and took it, scrubbing the pages with the fabric.

‘Thanks, Sledgehammer.’ Shelton murmured, in a voice that was entirely too soft for him. He cleared his throat, uncomfortably.

Eugene glanced at him, sucking his teeth.

‘You’re an asshole.’ He stated firmly, flicking the last of the mud from his book before shutting it firmly. ‘But you’re our asshole and ain’t no one gonna talk shit ‘bout you but us.’

Shelton nodded. 'You know what I wanna know?' He mused.

'I'm sure you're gonna tell us.' Burgie rebuked, stretching out his legs in front of him.

‘I wanna know who's my competition past Honolulu.’ Shelton quipped.

Eugene snorted, settling his eyes shut as the peace of their foxhole resumed. ‘I’m gonna go with Hitler.’ He stated.

‘Stalin.’ Burgie countered. 

'Hell, let's go the whole hog and say, Hirohito.' Eugene suggested.

'Hey!' Shelton objected. 'I ain't that bad!'

Burgie sucked his teeth, in disagreement. 'I sure as shit know who my money'd be on.' He quipped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Please let me know what you think!
> 
> The title is an excerpt from the poem 'A Cajun Man' by Lucy Leger.


	3. I can't solve your problems; but I won't leave you to face them alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eugene fights for Shelton.
> 
> When Shelton contracts Malaria on their return to Pavuvu, no one thinks he'll be back on his feet in time to move out. No one except Eugene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Please be aware, this chapter mildly references child abuse **
> 
> This chapter's a looong one - settle in, at least it's something to do during lockdown!

It was his own fault; he knew that.

K Company had been settled in for a rest somewhere near the Umurbrogol Mountain range when Shelton had exploded into a rage, assuring all who would listen that he had _had enough_.

With a furious shout, he tossed his seabag to the floor. Its contents spilt out onto the sand as he proclaimed loudly that he would not carry any of it a single step further. Demonstratively kicking out at the bag as he denounced the entire operative as a _complete fuckin' shit-show._

It was in the midst of arguing with Burgie about exactly _why_ his rifle was deemed as essentialwhen they received the news to fall out.

He repacked belligerently, muttering angrily beneath his breath as he tossed only his required possessions back into his seabag. His comb, razor, spare clothing, saved rations, Japanese paraphernalia, and a handful of tidbits from home remaining discarded in the sand as he reloaded his pack onto his back.

He'd done it for a number of reasons.

Partly to prove a point. To try and show the superior officers that their men are so _fucking exhausted_ that they were willing to toss their precious belongings.

Partly because he _was_ convinced that he couldn't take even another step ladened down like a fucking packhorse.

Some of the other men followed suit, alleviating the weight of their packs, abandoning their possessions in the dirt.

Others had swarmed the pile. Pilfering any items that they deemed of worth, leaving a paltry collection of unwanted leftovers. Which were, in bulk, Shelton's. 

Regardless of their reasoning, the exercise seemingly went unnoticed. Luitenant Mac had watched them, a look of complete ambivalence on his face.

K Company pitied him on the whole. No man could step up and replace Ack-Ack. Not a chance in hell. But it took a certain man to fail quite as _spectacularly_ as Mac had.

He had been a marked man the day he had volunteered K Company to be amongst the handful of platoons who remained on the captured Peleliu. Especially when most of the other squadrons had already moved out weeks ago.

With not a Jap to be seen for a month the exercise had been demoralising, to say the least.

Food and water had been scarce their entire stint on Peleliu. They were hungry, they were thirsty, they had been promised that they were being relieved for over a month. _They were just so goddamn exhausted._

Not that Mac cared.

Where Ack-Ack would have inspired them to repack their things and keep putting one foot in front of the other, he simply lit a cigarette and called for them to keep moving; reminding them they had a job to do, after all.

Shelton glared at him as he passed.

It was easy for him to say. He hadn't been a Lieutenant as long as most of them had remained on this godforsaken island. 

After not half a mile down the trek, he resolved the entire endeavour had been nothing more than a waste of energy. His pack was no lighter, he was lacking the possessions he'd held dearest and he was even _more_ fucking tired from scrabbling round in the dirt.

It was the following afternoon when he realised just quite how much of a mistake the venture had been.

As they settled into new ground for the night and he rummaged through his seabag, only then did he discover just quite how many of his belongings he had left behind.

His heart hammered in his throat when he discovered the picture of his Momma and sister - _the only picture he had_ _of them_ \- wasn't amongst his things. It must have been left amid the pile of squandered goods somewhere by the mountain range.

He lit a cigarette, forcing his devastation out of his chest. He tried to placate himself over the fact he still had his drawstring bag of gold. Not that they offered any conciliation. 

His picture outweighed the loss of anything else he'd carried. Including his pill bottle of Atabrine.

_Fuck._

* * *

It had started with just a mild chill and a headache.

The platoon had landed back on Pavuvu after a further fortnight in-country.

Yet, it wasn't the rest they had so desperately been hoping for. After barely being given the time to scrub the ingrained filth from their bodies, swap out their stinking dungarees for fresh ones and get a few hours uninterrupted sleep, they were expected to resume training.

Shelton had barely slept at all since landing. Instead, he spent the nights tossing and turning in his rickety cot; shuddering against the shooting pains fulminating throughout his joints.

He put it down to feeling out of place, still reeling from his experiences of combat. His body would need a couple of days to acclimatise; _he'd settle down after that._

Only his symptoms didn't ease; they only worsened - a headache, a stomach ache, shivering.

He tried to placate himself that if he couldn't sleep, at least a decent meal would set him right. However, that too was an unachievable feat. The food was poor - almost as poor as their tinned rations. So poor, in fact, that he couldn't keep it down.

All that was available was rice, rice and yet more rice.

He was fucking _sick_ of rice - that coming from a boy who had been raised on the stuff. So sick in fact that even the _thought_ of consuming any more of it made him physically ill. At least, that was the excuse gave as he pushed the sloppy mound round his mess with his fork.

He was grateful at how readily the others accepted his fragile explanation. Taking his portion without question and splitting in between themselves, hawking loudly at how incredible it was to have hot food in their bellies - no matter how terrible the quality.

It was only Eugene who eyed him with a dubious gaze, pointing out the fact he hadn't eaten at dinner, either.

Shelton panicked, defensive like a cornered animal. It took an excessive amount of vitriol and several lewd gestures for Eugene to finally drop the line of questioning.

As soon as he did, Shelton excused himself, claiming _if he wanted a wife; he'd start writin' Ball Peen's butt ugly sister._ The onslaught of laughter that ensued allowed him to easily duck from the mess hall.

He barely made it out of sight before collapsing to his knees in the thicket at the edge of camp, emptying the contents of his stomach into the undergrowth. He shook beneath the thin sheen of sweat that covered his skin. His uniform clung to him, his head pounded and his arms trembled with the exertion it took to hold himself up. He felt weak, _exhausted_.

But it was just heat stroke. That was all this was. That was all this could be. Heatstroke. He couldn't be ill; he didn't have time to be ill. Not that that mattered; because he wasn't ill. This was _just heatstroke_. 

He spat to the ground and struggled back to his feet, resolving he would feel immeasurably if only he continued to act normal. _'L_ _'esprit sur la matière'_ as his Mawmaw used to tell him.

However, Shelton's attempts proved utterly fruitless. His 'normality' lasted little more than ten minutes when he barely made it towards the toilet block in time, vomiting twice on the way. 

He spent the rest of the morning stuck on the shitter. A never-ending stream erupting from his body as he shivered over the latrine. He hadn’t managed to keep food down in days, so where it was coming from, he had no clue. As he wiped his ass and turned to cover the mess, he frowned to notice it was streaked with blood.

Part of him pondered whether he should have mentioned it... to Burgie or to Eugene or perhaps to one of the Docs.

But he shrugged away such useless thoughts - because it was only heatstroke and there was nothing that could be done for heatstroke.

Instead, he pulled up his pants and fell into formation, just in time for rifle training. 

The heat was unbearable, which he found odd.

It was milder that day than it had been for weeks - barely pushing 90. Yet he surmised that the training ground must have been a particularly concentrated heat trap, for it could have only been the sun that was causing his rise in body temperature.

He leaked sweat from every pore, drenched from his socks to his collar. His canteen had been drained not ten minutes in as they sat being berated by the new Lieutenant.

The Louie in question was straight out of training school, barely older than most of the Boots. He'd not been in the Pacific long enough for his nose to redden, let alone to see active warfare. Yet if you were to listen to the shit pouring from his mouth, he had more knowledge about the mind of a Jap than the entire platoon combined.

It never failed to amuse Shelton how far a man could get in warfare with a rich Daddy and a college education. This fucker wouldn't recognise a Nip if one stabbed him in the ballsack with a rusty bayonet, he was sure of that.

_It was such pleasant imagines that Shelton surmised got him through the two-hour ordeal._

His ears rang and his head pounded from the constant shouting. In fact, his entire body screamed in agony from the incessant locking and loading. His hands wouldn't respond the way he wanted them to as he tried to load his rifle. Every movement was delayed, he felt _fucking awful._ And the longer he stayed in the heat, the worse his symptoms became. 

_It's fine._ He assured himself, repeating it over and over as if it were a mantra. _You've spent too long in the sun is all, you just need a lie down. That's all; you're fine. It's fine._

The moment they were released. Shelton stumbled to his feet, his vision was blurred, his skin was burning, his limbs felt leadened. _You just need to lie down._

He had no sooner stood than he tripped on nothingness. His legs buckled, his gaze went white for a moment, a high pitched ringing in his ears as he fell back into the sand on his knees, his head spinning. _You just need to lie down._

He was distantly aware of cries of his name, but he ignored them, staggering out of the deep trench in the direction of camp. 

Yet, he barely made it two-hundred-metres before he found himself blundering for the cover of the coconut trees. He collapsed to his hands and knees, opening his mouth and allowing acidic bile to pool against the foliage, for there was simply nothing left inside him.

He wretched once, twice more before shutting his eyes and resting his drenched forehead against the surface of the trunk. His eyes ran with tears from the burning in his throat and the agony throughout his body. He did all he could to placate himself.

_Just take ten seconds, you'll be fine. It's fine. Just ten seconds then you'll be OK._

He was distantly aware of the fact he was chunnering beneath his breath, articulating each thought that passed through his mind. He mused that he imagined this is what delirium would feel like if he had it... _only he didn't... because he wasn't ill; he couldn't be ill._

He was still muttering to himself when strong hands lifted him from his own vomit, settling him back against the tree.

He forced his eyes open, catching a shock of red hair and a concerned expression before they sank closed again.

Distantly, he felt his utility jacket being unbuttoned from around him, his bandolier being undone, helmet being removed. 

He tried to assure himself that he felt minorly better at his outer layers being removed. Desperately attempting to reason, this too, was a side effect of his self-diagnosed heatstroke. He felt less like he was suffocating in his mercifully less constrictive yet drenched PT Shirt.

He sucked air into his lungs to try and counter his dizziness. The metallic tang of a canteen was raised to his lips and water was poured down his throat. He gave a pitiful attempt to drink, his swallowing so delayed that most of the water only ran from his mouth.

Determined to retain at least a little of his dignity, Shelton struggled a hand upwards, batting the bottle away. He'd rather die of dehydration than make a fool of himself.

He felt some specks be splashed against his face and wouldn't have been entirely surprised if they'd immediately evaporated upon contact with his burning skin.

Resolving that he had had long enough feeling sorry for himself, Shelton used the little remaining stamina he had left to open his eyes. He frowned as he came face to face with Burgie. He didn't want Burgie; he wanted Eugene.

Yet he had no opportunity to object. Suddenly, Burgie's hands were on him. Pulling at his skin, tugging at his eyelids, feeling his forehead, opening his mouth, pressing into his stomach. Shelton raised a palm, trying to slap him away.

'Th'f'k y'doin'?' He slurred, batting at Burgie's intrusive grip. 

Another set of hands reached for him. He was pulled upwards, his head settled against a firm shoulder. Fingers threaded through his drenched hair, pulling his dripping curls back from his face. The action was comforting and despite himself, he melted into the attention.

'Let him.' Eugene's voice urged as an arm settled around his shoulders, keeping him upright. Obediently, he did. His head lolled backwards and rested against Eugene of its own volition, as he found himself expunged of any kind of energy. 'Is it?' He heard above him.

Burgie's voice was grave. 'Sure as shit looks like it.'

Eugene swore.

'L'ks l'k w't?' He mumbled, battling through his nausea, voice barely intelligible.

'Malaria.' Burgie answered and Eugene swore again. 'Snaf, when was the last time you took your Atabrine?' He asked, hesitantly.

He sucked his teeth lightly, a clenching gripped his stomach. He was unsure if it was more vomit or for the first time, he was frightened.

Yet he found the further he rested his head against Eugene's neck, the less afraid he felt.

'D'no.' He muttered, distantly.

'We need to get you to the Doctor.' Eugene stated, suddenly.

His brow twitched. To Shelton, he sounded scared. _Why was Eugene scared?_

He frowned, the words around him finally sinking in. No, he couldn't have Malaria. They didn't have _time_ for him to have Malaria. He wasn't going to leave his boys - _h_ _e couldn't leave his boys._

Gritting his teeth defiantly, he forced his eyes open, met once again by Burgie's blurry, concerned face. _He wasn't ill. He wasn't ill!_

His eyes sank shut again as he readied himself for an argument.

 _What shit you talkin'? I_ _don't need no goddamn Doctor, y'idiots. Just give me five fuckin' minutes and I'll be fine. Malaria? Ain't got no goddamn Malaria._

His lip snarled and his eyelids shot back open to inform them as such, but he stuttered at the sight of a green sheet of tarpaulin in front of him. He frowned, confused. He was no longer sat at the base of the tree, leant against Eugene.

He was slumped on a stool, _in medical?_

Shelton let out a dejected groan. _Fuck,_ he ached.

‘Sleeping Beauty’s awake.’ A voice interjected.

He rolled his eyes upwards, yet regretted it immediately. He caught the barest glimpse of Burgie and Eugene stood leaning above him, sharing a cigarette before the movement sent a searing pain through his head and was forced to drop his gaze back to the floor.

‘Th’fk did I get here?’ He murmured, raising a painful hand to his burning forehead.

‘We carried you.’ Eugene responded, lowering the cigarette to Shelton’s mouth. 'You passed out against the tree.'

He wrapped his lips around it, gratefully inhaling. ‘F’kin’ waste of time.’ He hissed, blowing smoke through his nose.

The movement sent another surge of pain. He let out a pitiful moan dropping his head against his knees, even his beloved smoking hurt.

'Waste o'time.' He repeated, a little more firmly.

‘Waste of time, is it?' Burgie countered, pulling a fresh cigarette from his pocket, disinclined to share with one Shelton until there had been a confirmation to his level of contagion, or lack-there-of. 'Gene?' 

With the mildest scoff, Eugene moved a fraction to his left, demonstratively. The step moved his hip from Shelton's shoulder and he stumbled to the side with a pitiful cry, too weak and dizzy to hold his own body weight. 

‘Rest our case.’ Eugene responded, catching hold of him before he fell from the chair and settling his hip back against him.

‘B’stard.’ Shelton retorted, resting his burning cheek against Eugene’s trouser leg, his head sank against him.

Eugene chuckled dryly, raising the cigarette back to his own lips, seemingly unperturbed by Burgie's fear of infection. He placed his hand on Shelton's shoulder, giving it an encouraging squeeze. 'You're OK.' He murmured, softly. 'You're gonna be OK.'

Shelton allowed his eyes to sink closed, relishing in the grounding feeling of Eugene's hand.

He repeated the mantra. _You're OK. You're OK._

Eugene wouldn't lie to him. He trusted Eugene. If Eugene told him he was safe, he was. 

Each time Shelton opened his eyes after that, he was unsure of how much time had passed.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours.

One thing he was aware of was each time he awoke, he felt decisively weaker, struggling to maintain his grip on reality.

One minute he was sat on the stool, Burgie holding a fresh cigarette to his lips as he tried to smoke.

The next he’s slumped on the floor, the taste of dirt and tarpaulin thick against his lips.

Then he's propped up between Eugene's legs like a rag doll all ounce of energy depleted as he directed his head down over the bucket in Burgie's grasp as he vomits over and over, a hand rubbing firm circles on his back. He surmised the hand must have belonged to Burgie; it didn't have the same affection as Eugene's.

After that, he's collapsed on a table distantly aware of the fact he's been stripped down to his skivvies. The paper of the medical bench clinging to his drenched skin.

Shelton blinked.

Something obtrusive and sticklike was stuck in his mouth and there was an unpleasant grip around his upper arm. He tried to spit out the object and pull at whatever was squeezing his skin. A stinging slap against his wandering hands made him rescind his actions, whining like a kicked dog. 

Blinking his eyes open, he recognised one of the camp doctors stood above him, smoking a pipe and squeezing a black pump that tightened a cuff on his arm. The doctor repositioned the glass thermometer in his mouth.

‘Don’t take you’re Atabrine, deal with the consequences.’ He stated, unsympathetically.

Dull rage settled in Shelton's stomach. He bared his teeth; ready for a diatribe.

 _OK, so losin' the Atabrine wasn't the **best** move, I'll give you that. But the corpsmen ain't have no reserves... what was I supposed to do in the middle of the godforsaken_ _jungle? Say to fuckin' Tojo, hold on one minute while I just hop back across the fucking Jap ridden fields to pick up some spare tablets - there's a good Nip? No! I was too busy keepin' Burgie and Sledgehammer and all the other equally useless motherfuckers from getting their fool asses shot off._

He smacked his lips several times in an effort to voice such opinions, yet the statement never articulated. He rolled his head to the side, staring blindly around him, as his vision, once again, fell hazy.

 _'_ _Sled’ma.’_ He drawled, pathetically.

Distantly, he heard Burgie's voice. 'Princess wants you.'

Then a small laugh.

'Aren't I lucky?'

The familiar grip fell to Shelton's drenched shoulder, patting it, supportively.

Painfully, Shelton raised his hand to Eugene's, desperate for the contact that had been the only grounding source for him since collapsing against the trees. He felt the hand move from his shoulder and grab onto his, holding him tightly, protecting him, watching out for him - just like he'd always done in-country.

Slowly, he allowed his eyes to sink back shut, letting oblivion swallow him. 

Safe in the knowledge nothing bad would happen; _not whilst Sledgehammer was there._

* * *

Eugene's Mother had wanted him to become a doctor, his brother, too. 

But Edward hadn't had the drive, preferring football to textbooks, whilst Eugene was driven by literature, immersed in a world of words rather than of scientific terms.

Subsequently, their Mother’s dreams had fallen by the wayside.

Yet as he sat at Shelton’s bedside, he pondered whether his instinctual need to remain there was a facet he had inherited from his Father or something much bigger.

Two Corpsmen had lugged him back from the aid tent on a stretcher as he and Burgie trailed behind, carrying his uniform and equipment between them. He was unsure what had been worse, the concerned calls from their comrades or watching Shelton lie motionlessly upon the carrier, his mouth slackened, his eyes vacant.

Eugene mused this is what he would look like if he were dying. 

Burgie had been right. 

Not five minutes upon being examined in medical, Shelton had been confirmed with Malaria. The tenth case in as many hours. 

Yet Shelton, never being one to do things by halves, wasn't just an ordinary patient.

His Malaria had been untreated for a week, maybe two, probably closer to three. As a result, he'd developed what seemed to be a blood infection. The yellowing in his skin confirmed that he was Jaundiced and now stood a greater risk from the infection than he did the damn Malaria.

The doctor warned them he was looking at one of the worst cases on the island, and there were a _number_ of cases. 

_He was the biggest idiot of all the idiots who hadn't taken their Atabrine._

Once Shelton had passed out again on the medical table having been sufficiently chastised, the doctor had turned his attention to Eugene and Burgie. Berating the pair of them for not bringing him sooner, confused as to how he had managed to keep functioning whilst being so unwell. Confused as to how _everyone_ had missed quite how ill he had become.

It was a question that he and Burgie had asked themselves as they watched the doctor emptying four full syringes of medication into Shelton's veins in an attempt to combat his sickness, infection and his fever.

_How in God's name was he still standing?_

Moreover, _how had they not noticed before?_

The guilt Eugene felt was insurmountable.

He'd recognised Shelton hadn't been well days before, having been woken in the night to his shivering and sweating. Yet he'd allowed his concerns to be dismissed by Shelton's insistence _he was fine._ He clearly wasn't fine, he'd known it then and he knew it now.

Another fact he knew for damn certain was that had the tables been turned, Shelton would have dragged him by the scruff of his shirt to the aid tent when they had first arrived back on Pavuvu, refusing to take no for an answer.

He had failed him. Plain and simple... and if _anything_ happened to him because of their lack of proactiveness at getting him to the doctor, as far as Eugene was concerned, it was his fault.

Perhaps that was why he reacted the way he did when the Corpsmen dumped him unceremoniously onto his rack and turned to leave. _His own guilt._

There had been so many aforementioned "idiots", that the field hospital simply did not have the capacity to care for them all.

So, despite his and Burgie's insistence to the contrary, Shelton was returned to their tent, with assurances that the medics would be there at regular intervals to check on his progress. Any information beyond that the doctor was simply unable to offer. Instead, he shrugged and assured them _we'll do what we can._

Eugene grimaced at the phrase. _We'll do what we can._ He fucking hated it. It was 'military speak' for - _there is something I can do but it'd be far too much hassle for me to do it. Instead, I'm going to fob you off and pull rank on you so you can't question what I'm doing, no matter how many people are struggling. THERE IS A WAR ON._

The abbreviated version? _You're on your own kid, sorry._

He and Burgie glanced at one another despondently, he knew this situation would be no different. 

_They were on their own._

They could barely look after themselves, what to do with their friend with a cripplingly high fever and a potentially life-threatening Malarial induced blood infection? _They had no idea._

'What now?’ Burgie called after the Corpsmen, dumbly. Eugene’s cast his gaze to Shelton, who was lying half slumped over the side of the bunk, skin glistening, eyes glassily staring. 

They turned in the doorway, already on their way back to the aid station.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well… are you coming back?' Burgie asked, gesturing absently. 'Are…. will he be going to… to… Banika… or…’ 

The Corpsmen shared a look. ‘Buddy, they wouldn’t waste passage on him.’ The first stated, with a shrug. ‘Not for an Atabrine refuser.’ 

‘The fuck is that supposed to mean?!’ Eugene hissed, suddenly ripping his eyes towards the Corpsmen. ‘He fuckin' _lost_ it... what was he meant to do?! Just ship back to safety 'cos he lost a pill bottle? He's fightin' for his goddamn country and they _won't waste passage on him?!_ ’

The Corpsman held his hand up. ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that… I’m just sayin’ Malaria isn’t a transferable…. We’d have the boats too and from shore every damn day for all the cases…’

'Think maybe you fuckin' should?!' Eugene spat. ‘We out there doin' our goddamn jobs gettin' annihilated, gettin' slaughtered like animals and we come back out here, there ain't enough medical supplies, there ain't enough food, there ain't enough space in medical and all you got to say is you won't _waste passage?'_ He scoffed dryly, shaking his head. 'Fuckin' disgrace.'

His heart pounded in his chest from the unfamiliar confrontation.

His Mother had always taught him the polite thing to do was sit back and accept things the way they were. _Well, fuck what his Mother thought_ _and fuck being polite._

The Corpsmen shared an uncomfortable look and Burgie let out an exasperated titter, scrubbing his hands over his cheeks.

'It's a damn joke.' He muttered, glancing towards Eugene and Shelton, before kicking his bunk in exasperation.

‘The doc’ll come by later with another shot.’ The second Corpsman stated. ‘More Morphine too… it’ll keep him comfortable.’ He dug into his pocket and withdrew a bottle of pills. ‘Make sure he takes these… every four hours…. They’ll bring his temperature down, help combat the infection a little more.’ 

Burgie slowly held out his hand and accepted the bottle, dejectedly.

Eugene’s stomach lurched with a sickening gripe. ‘So that’s it?’ He asked, quietly. ‘Some meds, coupl’a Hail Mary’s and hope he sweats it out of himself? Been told he's one of the _worst cases on the island_ and that's all that's bein' done?’ He trailed off. 'We ain't doctors, we don't have no clue how to look after him... we're on active fuckin' duty... don't have downtime!' 

The first Corpsman shrugged, apologetically. 'Chances are one of ya will be able to stand down from training to watch him... but...' He trailed off, glancing out of the tent to check they would not be overheard. 'If he gets shipped out to Banika, 'specially with an infection, you can wave goodbye you'll be long gone before they let him back.'

They glanced at Shelton, who lay muttering to himself, shuffling uncomfortably against his bunk. 

'Besides, it don't matter no how. He ain't movin' out with you in this state.' He concluded.

Eugene blinked, glancing at Burgie with confusion.

'We ain't had orders yet.' He interjected, firmly. 'We ain't... we ain't movin' out.'

The second Corpsman smirked. 'Think they trainin' you for the fun of it?' One asked. 'They want you gone... you'll be in Okinawa by year-end they say... others back to Peleliu... God knows where else... you got about two weeks... and I'm sorry boys but...' He glanced at Shelton. 'Hell... if he _makes it two weeks.._.'

He laughed.

Burgie barely had time to react as Eugene launched himself forward and hurtled towards the Corpsman. He grabbed him by the scruff of his PT shirt and holding onto him before he threw himself at him, as he had done the Boot. _No one fucked with Snafu; not on Sledge's watch._

'You're fuckin' _laughin_ '?' Eugene demanded. 'Like this is fuckin' _funny_?!' 

'Gene.' Burgie growled, expression set. _This wasn't helping._

Eugene's chest pounded as he stared down the Corpsman, his blood raged, his stomach clenched, his knees threatened to give way beneath him.

Shelton wasn't dying. Shelton couldn't die. They'd been through hell and back, lived to tell the tale and now he had one foot in the grave because of a fucking infection?

It wasn't fucking fair. Not Shelton.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze. Swallowing against the obnoxious ache in his throat and the pricking behind his eyes.

'Get the fuck out.' Burgie muttered, keeping his hand squarely against Eugene's chest. The Corpsmen gratefully scuttled away without so much as a second glance.

Eugene shook him off, pacing across the tent as the words settled in.

'We ain't leavin' him.' He hissed tightly, turning to Shelton again. 'He's... he's gonna be fine and... he's comin' _with us._ ' He crouched beside his mostly unconscious body, reaching for his shoulders. 'Let's get ya up.' He muttered, rolling him onto his back so he wasn't hanging over the edge of his cot. 'That's it.'

Shelton mumbled painfully, in objection and Eugene shushed him, gently. 

Burgie watched from his bunk, his eyes boring into Eugene's neck. 'Your Pop's a doctor?' He asked, hesitantly.

Eugene nodded, stiffly, rubbing a comforting hand against Shelton's shoulder.

'Then Doc's boy...' He paused. 'What the fuck do we do?'

Eugene swallowed and let out an exasperated huff of laughter. Shelton's eyes rolled, gazing up at him, glassy-eyed and unseeing before sliding shut again. He pressed a hand to his burning forehead. His skin was ablaze. _What the hell **would** Father do?_

'Water.' He murmured hesitantly after a moment, his voice thick. 'We need to get his temperature down.'

He shrugged off his utility jacket and bandolier, tossing it towards his rack, leaving him only in his PT Shirt. 'Get me a few buckets of cold water.' He stated. 'Freshwater. Not salt. Need to get him drinkin'... if he's got an infection, need to keep him clean... keep everythin' clean. We'll need to scrub his rack, it's fuckin' filthy.' 

Burgie nodded. 'I'll get Leyden and Jay in to help.' He murmured, tossing Eugene the pill bottle. 

Eugene caught it, surveying the label. 'See if you can do a Strategical Transport on some things, too.' Eugene added, running a hand across his nose. He gave Burgie a look. 'DDT, towels, spare mugs, whatever people'll give... if they won't give...' 

'Strategically Transport Equipment to an Alternate Location.' Burgie muttered with a wry smirk. 'That Louie from this mornin' is teachin' all day... don't think he'll miss his spare skivvies or his towel... I'll start there.' He murmured, before disappearing through the tent door without another word. 

Eugene sighed, settling down into the dirt beside Shelton.

'You ain't goin' nowhere you son of a bitch.' He hissed, stiffly, pressing a hand into Shelton's drenched hair. His chest burnt with desperation for him to open his eyes, to make some smart ass remark, to give a smirk or roll his eyes. He didn't. 

He only shuddered beneath the touch, body reverberating as he shivered.

'Ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you, you fucker.' He swore. 'Not a goddamn thing.'

* * *

Shelton used every ounce of strength he possessed to force his eyes open. 

Deliriously, he gazed around the tent.

It was dark, the tent was illuminated by a bright glare... perhaps a lamp?

He blinked. Everything was foggy before his eyes, his head pounded.

He opened his mouth to call out when suddenly a flood of vomit exploded from him before he could stop it. He was helpless to fight it off, barely managing to turn his head, let alone lean over the side of the cot. It was hot as it fell against his skin and burnt his throat with the acidity.

Hands were immediately on him, someone wrenched him forward, pulling him over the edge of his bunk and guiding him towards a bucket as he vomited again and again. A hand-rubbed his back in circles. An unintelligible voice assuring him softly.

Eventually, he slumped, energy depleted. He was gently laid back onto his bunk and a wash rag was lifted to his mouth. Something was pulled from beneath him, a blanket maybe?

 _'That's why I told you to get as many towels as you can._ ' A voice urged. His brow twitched. Eugene?

Something wet was pressed to his shoulder, wiping firmly at his skin.

 _Had he been sick on himself?_ He couldn't think. Like he gave a shit, either way. 

_'Goddamn fuckin' stinks.'_ Leyden. No doubt about it. He'd know the whine of that goddamn Apple Eater anywhere.

 _'If you ain't gonna help, fuck off.'_ Definitely Eugene.

He tried to open his mouth, tried to converse but the words dried up in his mouth as heat flooded him. Leyden shrieked.

' _GENE BACK UP! HE'S FUCKING SHIT HIMSELF!'_

He opened his eyes again to a clearer image, more time had passed. He could feel it.

He was vaguely aware of the fact he'd moved bunks. He licked his lip and twitched as he felt something deliciously cold pressed against his burning skin.

Slowly Eugene hazily fell into view, dipping a wet rag into a bucket of tepid water. He blinked.

'Gene?' He asked, dryly, his voice cracking from lack of use - a first. His eyes sank closed defeatedly, talking made his head burn.

'How you feeling?' He asked, softly. 

Despite himself, Shelton managed a smirk.

'Swell.' He whispered, opening his eyes again, his gaze casting around the tent. It was empty apart from themselves. ''s everyone?' He managed.

'They've moved tents.' Eugene responded, lightly. 'Let you get some rest.'

He nodded, licking his dried lips.

Without prompting, Eugene moved to help him drink, raising a metal cup from the mess hall to his lips.

Shelton eyed it as he sank back to his cot. 'Did you S.T.E.A.L. this?' He asked suspiciously.

Eugene smirked. 'God no!' He objected, then paused. 'Burgie did.'

Shelton huffed a laugh, immediately emitting a low whining as the movement radiated a new throbbing across his head. He sank his head back against his pillow, eyes falling shut again. 'Did I... shit... on Leyden?' He asked, tentatively.

'Just about.' Eugene answered. 'He called his nursin' days quits pretty much straight after.'

Shelton smirked.

'If I knew... shittin' m'self would get rid of you fuckers... I'd'a done it weeks'go.' A realisation spread across his body. Different bunk. Eugene. 'Oh... ya didn't...' He implored.

Eugene sucked his teeth. 'Oh we did.' He answered, with a pained chuckle. 'Hauled you outside and scrubbed you down... whole of Love Company saw your naked ass.'

'Lucky... fuckers.' Shelton stuttered, shuffling his drenched body against his sopping bunk. It was softer than he remembered it being. Glancing down, he saw a blanket lining his bunk. 'How bad is it?' He asked, wearily.

Eugene's breath hitched beside him. 'You got a nasty infection... got a long couple'a weeks ahead of you.' He stated, rewetting the rag from the bucket at his feet and pressing more water from his burning chest up to his neck. 'Try and rest.'

'So... fuckin'... hot.' Shelton responded, failing to notice the way Eugene breezed past the question. 'You playin'... nursemaid, Sledgehammer?'

'Ain't no other fucker dumb enough to come within ten feet o'your nasty ass.' Eugene responded, affectionately. 'Sleep, Snaf.'

Suddenly, Shelton opened his eyes, gazing up at Eugene imploringly from his re-appropriated pillows.

'You'll stay?' He begged. 

For the first time, he realised how badly fear clutched him. He was frightened; truly frightened. He didn't remember ever feeling so ill in his entire life. In fact, he couldn't remember very much, at all. All he knew was how desperately he wanted Eugene to stay and he wasn't too big of a man to admit it.

'I'll stay.' Eugene assured him, pressing his hand to Shelton's shoulder. 'Right here. I'll be right here when you wake up.'

Pitifully, tears ran from his eyes as he allowed his lids to sink closed again. If he had felt stronger or if anyone else had been there, he would have made at least some effort to hide them. Made at least some effort to feign ignorance to how ill he was, pretend he didn't feel as badly as he did. Pretend he wasn't so ashamed of how badly he had let his friends down.

Perhaps if he'd kept them open longer, he would have noticed the way Eugene forced his gaze up to the overhead to keep himself from crying.

* * *

The days passed at a snail's pace. 

Shelton flicked in and out of consciousness, sometimes communicative, other times barely responsive. He tossed and turned, sweating and shivering violently. He would scream out with no warning, making Eugene jump violently. Other times he would chunner to himself in seeming tongues, it took them several days to surmise he was talking in French.

Worse yet, was when he would wake long enough to ask for something, to reach out blindly and mumble desperately and they would have _absolutely no clue_ what he was saying. Shelton's accent could be hard enough to understand at the best of times, add any basic emotion beyond his standard state of irritation, and such difficulties would increase ten-fold. 

It was only Eugene who could make heads or tails of what he was saying and that was only by getting him to repeat himself two or three times with his ear pressed virtually against his lips. 

It proved to be a good thing, for as the days leaked away, so too did the help.

Before a full 48 hours was up, Bill refused to even step foot within the tent anymore.

Not that Eugene blamed him; the place was suffocating.

The first night that Shelton had awoken and asked him where the others had gone, Eugene failed to mention that part of the reason they had vacated was that the sheer stench of the tent was unbearable. The burning heat baked any air from the tent, leaving it stiflingly hot, the mosquito netting around the tent restricted any and all airflow. Mix that with the overwhelming smell of infection, vomit and other unmentionable things that frequently erupted from Shelton and it proved to be an altogether unpleasant environment.

Yet there was nothing in the whole damn Pacific that could have torn Eugene away from Shelton's bedside.

It was difficult to describe.

He'd tried to pencil it down into his bible during some of Shelton's calmer moments. The only way he could articulate it was an innate, guttural need to protect him.

Having spent the last days looking after him, the thought of anyone else intervening at this point raged panic throughout his body, cast him into fight mode. 

He was terrified no one would look after him the way he did.

He was frightened no one else would turn him as frequently to prevent him from getting bedsores, no one else would press wet cloths over his skin when he quivered and shook from his fever, no one else would understand that he needed something to drink when he made the dry sucking noise with his cracked lips.

No one else would ensure every inch of his skin was cleaned after he'd messed himself, no one else would rub his back and hold his fringe up when he vomited, no one would change his bedding when he'd drenched through it or gotten it dirty, no one else would make sure to clear every ounce of sprayed sick or dropped rice from his skin.

Or perhaps he was just frightened of the fact that simply that no one else would care about him, quite as much as he did.

Perhaps, he was just acutely aware of how fragile he was, how delicate he was.

Perhaps, it was the notion that if anything happened to him, Eugene would never forgive himself if there had been more he could have done.

Whatever it was, whatever the irrational urge inside of him was, Eugene knew there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. There wasn't a damn thing he wanted to do about it.

The Shelton that had existed in-country was nowhere to be seen at Pavuvu. This Shelton was an entirely new breed entirely. His usual brazen exterior made it easy to believe nothing could touch him, nothing could bother him.

But after this, Eugene knew never to be so ignorant, again.

He was frightened, that much was clear. He was deliriously, heart-wrenchingly terrified. He dreamed constantly, he hallucinated, he screamed at things that weren't there, he cried out in his sleep.

He called for his Momma a lot.

Burgie had been there the first time he had done it; collecting a mound of Shelton's soiled washing. The outburst made them both fall silent for a moment. Burgie had cleared his throat tightly, whilst Eugene felt his chest was about to explode. He murmured assurances to him, whilst gently scratching his head - an action he had found to calm him down, comfort him.

Yet whilst he wouldn't choose to be anywhere else, the experience of watching Shelton fighting through this... this had been his worst experience of war so far.

Having someone who meant so much to you suffer and not having a _damn thing_ you could do but watch.

Seeing him curled against the dirty fabric of his rack, crying and shaking, skin burning hotter than the sun, delirious and agitated, calling out blindly, unable to communicate.

A dignified, proud man like Shelton reduced to depending on his friends for everything - helping him drink, feeding him in his looser moments, cleaning him when his bodily fluids ran out of him like water, whilst the doctors and superior officers acted as though this was standard procedure.

Acted as though he were just a normal Marine - like it didn't matter, as though _he_ didn't matter. That? That was worse than any Jap attack. 

Yet, however difficult Eugene found it, slowly but surely, Shelton was pulling through.

Five nights after returning to the tent, the Doctor confirmed his temperature was finally dropping. 

'103.' He mused. 'Still high but he's down from 110.'

Burgie grinned from his position at the door, holding it open as he attempted to waft some air through the tent. 'That's good ain't it?' 

The doctor nodded. 'How you findin' him?' He asked Eugene. 

Eugene nodded from his bunk, cigarette in between his fingers. 'He was awake again earlier. Not long, ten minutes or so but we were talkin' - he was lucid.' 

'That's good.' He wrote down in his notebook as he spoke. 'And you've been excused of your duties?'

'Yes, sir.' Eugene affirmed. 'Luitenant Mac saw to it.'

The doctor nodded, again. 'I hear K-Company has their orders?' He asked.

Eugene and Burgie glanced to one another.

Mac had arrived in the tent earlier that afternoon to announce they would be moving out in fourteen days. However, his news had not ended there.

'I've stricken Shelton's name off the rosta.' He'd announced, folding his arms across his chest. 'We can't afford to be a man down.'

'We won't be!' Eugene insisted, desperation rising in his chest. 'Sir, he's _immeasurably_ different from how he was five days ago.' 

'Sledge.' Mac had cocked his head and spoke to him like he was a child. 'I appreciate he's your buddy but I've got to think of the good of the platoon.'

'He's the best damn mortarman in the platoon!' Eugene pressed, desperately. 'Give him time, you've met him, you know how damn stubborn he is! He'll be better in time!'

'Sledge...' He began.

'Ack-Ack would.' The statement fell from his mouth before he had any chance to even contemplate whether it was a good idea or not. 'Ack-Ack would have given him the chance. If you don't believe me, ask _anyone_!' He floundered, taking in Mac strained face at his comparison to his predecessor. 'Ask Gunny Haney - Gunny'll tell you that Ack-Ack would have let him try! Please, sir.' 

What made him do it, he wasn't sure. If he hadn't have been so desperate he would have blanched with mortification at the meer thought of it. He clasped his hands towards the Luitenant. 'Sir...' He voice shook and his hands quivered. 'Please, I am _begging you._ Give him a chance.' 

Mac pursed his lips, looking horrified at Eugene's outburst. There was an uncomfortably long pause. He gave a stiff nod.

'I won't strike him off yet... But if his temperature ain't down in a week and the Doc won't sign off on him, he's staying behind Sledge.'

Eugene nodded desperately. 'It will be! The doc will! Thank you, sir.' 

His heart had pounded for a long time after that.

Burgie had arrived a short while later and they had eaten their mess together at the front of the tent. He relayed Mac's promise but chose to forgo the part where he'd had to essentially beg on his hands and knees for it.

To their delight, when the Doctor arrived, he too didn't think it was unachievable.

'By the skin of his teeth...' He stated, with a pause, he turned to them both. 'And I mean _the skin._ ' He looked back towards Shelton, slapping his wrist and checking for colouration before reaching for the prepared syringe. 'He _might_ be with you.' 

'You think so?' Burgie asked, grinning towards Eugene. 

'We'll see.' The doctor resolved, injecting the Malarial medication into the crook of Shelton's arm before reaching for his second syringe that contained his Antivirals. 'He eatin'?'

'Bits.' Eugene answered. 'Hard getting him to swallow the rice - been mixin' it with water to get it down him easier but...'

'More water he drinks the more he's...' The doctor gestured metaphorically, as he emptied the vial into Shelton's skin. 'I'll see what I can do about gettin' him some pouched rations.' He stated. 'Be easier gettin' him to eat them.'

Eugene and Burgie glanced at one another, bemusedly. 

'We been gettin' him to eat weevil infested rice for nearly a week and he could've had ration pouches?' Eugene asked incredulously. 'Are ya shittin' me?'

The doctor clicked his tongue. 'Oversight, son.' He mused. 'We're at war don't forget. We're doing what we can.'

Eugene gritted down on his teeth. If he stepped foot back onto Pavuvu again in his entire life after this was over, it would be too fucking soon.

But right now, the doctor thought Shelton had a chance of moving out and that was all that mattered. 

* * *

Shelton awoke in bursts. Sometimes only to snap himself from the visions and memories plaguing his dreams, sometimes long enough to hold conversations. Other time barely grabbing snippets of the sight before him, until he was lost again.

_He can feel the scream in his throat that chokes him with a grief beyond words as he tries to follow his Mother along the balcony of the floor of their apartment. His knees scrape against metal railings as he calls for her. He knows she can hear him, he's shouting and shouting until his throat is raw, but she ignores him. He knows she won't be coming back. He knows she's left him alone with his Father..._

He watched as Eugene carried the sick bucket outside and emptied its contents, with a grimace. As he carried it back in, he noticed Shelton lying awake. His mouth moved as he spoke, but Shelton struggled to decipher the words coming out. Slowly, he drifted back to sleep...

_There's the crunch of a fist and the sound of his Mother wailing. His Father stands seven feet tall as he crouches beneath the kitchen table, baby sister tucked into him. He keeps facing forward, trying to avert his eyes from the scene before him. He can't turn around because then she might look. He sings a lullaby to her beneath his breath, trying to get her to stop crying. He doesn't make it to the part about gateaux and hot cocoa before a hand reaches for him and drags him from beneath the table..._

_A priceless, tiny dog is mauled by sharp teeth for the cost of pennies. He cries and screams at the fence at the bottom of the yard, he punches and he kicks and he stamps, consumed by his rage and grief. He swears. He swears he will never become his Father..._

_There's a momentary coolness of a damp cobblestone against his fractured cheekbone as he lies beneath the New Orlean's drizzle. He staggers as he claws himself back to his feet. But he has to get back up because that was how he'd been raised - to fight until you win or the consciousness leaves your body. It was the man who'd taught him that who had delivered the first punch. But this time will be different, he's old enough to fight back now. He won't be bettered by the bastard who's been beating for longer than he can remember. Because he's not frightened anymore, and this is for his Momma and for Essie and for Nathan and for the little boy who was too small to defend them. For the little boy who thought it was his fault..._

_The ringing of gunfire still reverberates in his ears and the pungent aroma of blood is festering in his nostrils as he claws around in a dead man's mouth for shreds of gold. His cheeks are still wet and warm over his fingers. As he forces his KA-BAR into the back molar, blood pooling over his skin, he ponders when such an abject numbness became his standard emotion. He ponders when exactly it is that he lost the capacity to care..._

_It hits him like a freight train. The flutter in his stomach from a dirty look thrown towards him by a pissed off Boot, covered in sweat, grub and oil. He mutters beneath his breath, scrubbing obstinately at the drum, until it shines like the Chrysler Building. It shouldn't mean anything; he'll be dead in a week. But when the Boot's face appears over his as he lies dazed on an airfield where he was destined to die he wonders. Does it mean something, after all?_

Eugene’s face stared down at him, murmuring to him as he writhed against his bunk. He had become au fait enough that he understood what caused the flood of heat running down his legs. His skin burnt for a whole new reason as Eugene's hands reached for him. 'It don't matter.' He urged, gently. 'I'll sort it, it don't matter.' He allowed his eyes to sink shut, grateful he had passed back out by the time his blankets were pulled away...

_A Jap is crouched in the tent, creeping through the darkness. Suddenly he's upon him bayonet aloft, shrieking at him in tongues. He jerks awake with a scream, fighting out against anyone who tries to calm him..._

Eugene lay fast asleep on the floor beside his cot, his head resting on the crook of his arm that was settled against the frame of his rack. Shelton studied his face, he looked exhausted. He reached his hand forward, resting his fingers against the warm skin of Eugene's arm before falling back asleep...

_He wakes with a shudder, he's completely alone. The camp is completely abandoned save for Eugene’s bible. He carries it through the sand, battling against the rats and the land crabs, calling out for anyone only to reach the dock and see a boat sailing away in the distance. He screams out desperately at the sea in a hope someone will hear him. They don't; he’s been left behind. He sits on the ground and opens the bible in tentatively. It's almost nightfall when he has deciphered the letters into words. 'DIRTY QUEER' is all that is adorned across its pages..._

Eugene stood in the middle of the tent, brushing his teeth, he raised a hand in greeting...

Leyden and Burgie lifted him onto a new cot as Eugene hauled the one he had just vacated outside, with a pained expression. Leyden made a move, pretending to drop him. Once he was safely down on his new bunk, Burgie delivered a swift punch to his arm, chastising him for his callousness. Shelton chuckled, lowly, causing their gaze to turn to him...

Burgie and Eugene sat playing cards outside the tent...

Eugene held him up against his chest, spooning rice into his mouth, swearing at him exasperatedly each time he objected. He tried desperately hard to swallow against the growing nausea in his stomach. If only to appease him. Humiliatingly, the thought of Eugene being angry at him made him want to cry. Sensing his distress, Eugene pulled the spoon away. He rubbed his back, murmuring apologetically. 'I'm sorry, that wasn't fair, I won't do that again.' He lifted water to his lips, helping him to drink instead...

A bright light shone into his eyes, the smell of antiseptic and the sting of an injection against his arm. The scratch of a pen against a clipboard...

Burgie sat above him, helping him drink water, the bitter tang of the Halazone tablet dissolved in the mug. He grimaced and baulked, but Burgie was firmer with him than Eugene, hissing at him to _motherfucking drink_...

Crying out for Eugene pitifully because Eugene promised not to leave. Eugene coming into view each time he's called, reaching for him and assuring him he's there...

Being stripped of his clothing and doused with deliciously cold water. Being lifted onto a new cot. Having the bucket held to him. Having rice fed into his mouth. Having water poured down his throat. The Doctor shining a flashlight into his eyes, injecting him sharply into the crook of his arm. More buckets, more cots, more rice, more water, more lights, more injections...

Cold rags on his forehead. Cold rags on the back of his neck. Cold rags on his chest...

Until one day, the moment doesn’t leak away as suddenly.

He blinked wearily up at the overhead. Still shaking violently, he lay curled beneath the pile of blankets covering him, trying to ignore the way his damn bunk rattled beneath him.

It was a different rack than the one he remembered falling asleep on.

The towels beneath him remained relatively dry, he hadn't been on his new bed long enough for his sweat to soak through to the canvas. It took a moment for him to realise that the shaking wasn't accompanied by a burning temperature, in fact, the opposite. It's was fucking cold. _So fucking cold._

His fever had broken.

‘Welcome to the land of the living.’

His raised his gaze, meeting Eugene’s face.

He offered the tiniest smirk. 'D’ya miss me, Boo?’ He asked, teeth clunking together as he shivered beneath his covers.

‘Miss you?’ Eugene retorted. ‘Been my idiot self, feeding you rice and wipin’ your ass for the last ten days.’

‘Ten days?’ Shelton responded incredulously, opting to ignore the ass wiping comments. He clicked his tongue. 'Time flies when you're havin' fun.'

‘Ten days.’ Eugene affirmed. ‘It’s been like having a goddamn newborn.’ 

‘Fulfillin'?’ Shelton offered, tucking the blanket up to his chin.

‘Horrific.’ Eugene countered. ‘You cold?’

‘Fuckin' freezin'’ Shelton murmured, shuddering. 

Eugene smiled. He reached across onto the spare bunk and pressed a new blanket over him. 'Your fever's broken.'

'C... could'a guessed.' Shelton responded, with a shudder.

'You're a popular man, Snaf.' He stated.

'Yeah?' Shelton asked, distantly. 'Why's that?'

'Half the damn company sleepin' with no covers so you can have 'em.'

He smiled. 'You tell the other half I'ma shit on 'em.' He paused. 'What day is it?' He asked

‘Tuesday.’ Eugene answered, reaching to pull the blankets around him tightly.

He nodded, lightly. Confused as to how the hell he had been sleeping for so long. He chose not to question it.

‘Thanks, Gene.’ He whispered, quietly. ‘I’m sorry you got stuck with this.’

A hand reached for his hair, soft and gentle, skirting through the curls on his head, warm fingers touching his scalp. His eyes sank closed, relishing in the attention.

‘Nothing to be sorry for, idiot.’ Eugene murmured. ‘Nothing you wouldn’t do for me.’

Shelton snorted. ‘I wipe asses for no man.’ He mumbled.

He can hear to eye roll.

‘Sleep it off, you're over the worst.’ Eugene urged. ‘'sides... we’ve had a delivery.’

‘Momma Sledge?’ Shelton asked, smiling into his pillow. ‘She send the good baby food?’

‘I’ve saved you the custard pudding.’

‘Sledgehammer, I’ll make an honest woman of you one day.’ He muttered.

‘Shut up or I’ll eat your apple sauce, too.’ 

‘She sent apple sauce?’ He asked delightedly, settling against his bunk. ‘Hell, I might make an honest woman of your Momma.’

It was dark when he awoke. Burgie sat across from him.

‘Is it still Tuesday?’ He murmured.

‘Thursday.’ Burgie answered around his cigarette, with a shake of his head. 

‘Save my Pudding.’ He muttered. 

He had been dreaming of his Mother's face before he opened his eyes. Her dark eyes and her warm smile.

It was around dusk, Eugene sat with his back to him, daubing in his bible, a plume of smoke around him. Shelton watched him for a moment. 

'I lost m'a'Momma.' He murmured, quietly.

Eugene jumped at the unexpected noise. Slowly, he turned. 'Huh?'

'My Momma.' Shelton repeated, blinking wearily, still a little out of it. 'Lost her.'

Eugene licked his lip awkwardly. 'I know... you've told me before... when you were younger.'

He shook his head, recognizing his mispronunciation. 'Her picture.' He amended, running his teeth over his cracked lips. 'When I emptied my pack... dropped her picture. With my Atabrine...' He trailed off, grief heavy in his chest. 'Don't got another picture o'her... or of my sister.'

Eugene blinked at him, oddly, his eyes flashing with realisation.

Wordlessly, he hurried to his bunk, reaching for his seabag.

Shelton eyed him, questioningly.

From it, Eugene pulled his bundle of correspondence from home - letters, pictures, postcards. It was thick, full of love and support.

He leafed through the stack haphazardly before locating what he was looking for. Gingerly, he pulled a picture from it, before crossing back to Shelton's rack.

'This one?' He asked, tentatively, holding out a battered picture.

A sledgehammer to his chest couldn't have hit him harder. His heart pounded as relief flushed through his entire body. Tears pricked in his eyes.

With a shaking hand, Shelton reached for it.

His Mother and sister stared back at him, safely.

He stammered. 'Wha... why...'

'When you were havin' your temper tantrum over repackin', I saw it in the dirt.' Eugene murmured. 'Thought you'd left it behind on purpose... didn't want you to change your mind about it later... I completely forgot I'd picked it up, I'm sorry, Snaf.' 

Shelton stared at him, his mouth agape. 

Eugene smirked, wryly. 'Shame I didn't spot your Atabrine while I was at it.' He muttered.

Shelton thumbed the picture gently. 'Eugene...' He breathed, his voice thick. He coughed. 

In the years to come, if he had to pinpoint the exact moment it was then.

It was then that he knew.

He'd spent the last three months learning the warmth of an arm against his, the weight of a head against his shoulder, beginning to recognise the smell of sleep and natural scent.

He'd learnt his smile and his laugh and his pain and his fears. He'd tried to placate himself with assurances that it had been enough. The comradery and the support. 

Assuaged himself with the knowledge that this could never have been any more than it was, as they shared a cigarette and laughed together.

At that moment, he discerned that despite what he had been telling himself... that this had been enough, so adequately enough, feeling like this was the closest thing to happiness that he would ever experience; regardless of the fact they were at war or not. 

Despite how many times he'd been stuck in an internal quandary, telling himself over and over that he would never wish to sully him, never wish to taint him.

Because Eugene was too pure, whilst he was simply too dirty - too debauched, too horrendous a person.

In that moment; it fell by the wayside.

Because it would never be enough. None of it would ever be enough.

In that moment, he didn't have it in himself to care anymore, as selfish as that may have been.

He wanted Eugene, as long as that may take. He resolved... he needed Eugene in his life. _Whatever the capacity._

* * *

They only had five days until shipping out when it happened.

They were heading back to Peleliu for yet more reconnaissance work thanks to Mac. Not that they were complaining, anything was better than Pavuvu.

Eugene was sat in the sand at front of the tent with a cigarette clutched in his lips when Burgie approached.

'You look like shit.' He stated, with a grin.

'Feel it.' Eugene refuted, lifting his gaze up to meet Burgie's. 'Fuckin' exhausted... my ears're bleedin'.'

Burgie smirked. 'How is he?'

Eugene nodded, blowing smoke out of his nose. 'Doin' OK.' He answered. 'He's was up most of the mornin'... fell back asleep a couple of hours ago.'

'Rue the day he started talkin' again?' Burgie asked, with a grin, digging his elbow into Eugene's side.

He rolled his eyes. 'Na.' He stated. 'Ain't been the same without him moanin'.' 

Burgie nodded. 'Hell, Sledgehammer.' He mused. 'Mobile'll make a fine Doctor of ya when this shit's over.'

Eugene scoffed, shaking his head. 'No.' He rebuked, with a grin. 'Him bein' a patient has put me off _for life.'_

'I find that rude.'

The voice from the tent made them both jump, they span round.

Shelton stood in the doorway on unsteady feet for the first time in over a fortnight, his blanket clutched tightly around his shoulders, squinting beneath the glaring sun.

'The fuck are you doin'?' Eugene asked incredulously, with a disbelieving laugh. 'Why in God's name you up?'

'I called ya but ya didn't hear me.' Shelton responded, shakily walking towards them and taking a seat beside Burgie. 'Don't s'ppose you know where my smokes are?'

With a look of sheer incredulity, Burgie turned from Shelton to Eugene. He laughed.

'You goddamn son of a bitch.' He scoffed. 'Merriell Shelton.' He plucked one last cigarette from his pack with his teeth before tossing it to Shelton, who caught it clumsily. 'Call it a welcome home present.'

'Romus Burgin, you are a good man.' He drawled, gratefully. Burgie held his lighter aloft, igniting the end of Shelton's cigarette.

He inhaled gratefully, letting out a cough from his lack of smoking over the past few couple of weeks. ' _Jesus_.' He uttered. 

'That good?' Eugene asked, with a grin.

Shelton nodded. 'Fuckin' excellent.' He answered. 

'Hey, Snaf.' Burgie murmured. 'We move out in five days, you gonna be ready?'

Shelton scoffed, cigarette dangling from his lips as he adjusted his blanket around his shoulders. 'Let me get a shower and a shave and I'll be good to go in an hour.' He responded, indifferently.

'He's back.' Eugene muttered, with a grin.

'Hey Sledge?' Shelton asked, turning to him. 'You still got my puddin'?'

Eugene scoffed lightly, shaking his head. _They'd fucking made it._

'Yeah, Shelton.' He replied, inhaling on his cigarette. 'I still got your puddin'.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Title is taken from a quote - 'I can't promise to solve all your problems, but I promise I won't leave you to face them alone.' Author; unknown.


	4. The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eugene fights for Shelton.
> 
> When Shelton reveals he can't read and write, Eugene steps in to change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who has followed this story.
> 
> I have been absolutely overwhelmed with the comments from you all, your support means the absolute world.
> 
> I tried to cut this down but I'm officially diagnosing myself with a too-much disorder. So here's 7,000 words of sheer fluff.
> 
> A much lighter chapter than the last one - but possibly a precursor to the subsequent?!
> 
> Once again, thank you so much... I hope you enjoy reading!

It had been during Peleliu that the extent of Shelton's illiteracy had been established. 

They had been in-country a little over two months when Jay had somehow gotten his hands on a New York Times.

A majority of the ink had been smudged from the sheer amount of previous hands that had dissected its print, half the leaves were torn or missing and it was nearly five months out of date. Yet the entire group eagerly crowded around its pages for a taste of home.

They had been immersed in its contents when Shelton's voice broke through the silence of their reading.

'Pass me the funnies!' He directed, holding his hand out towards Jay, who held the remainder of the paper. 

'No funnies left, Snaf.' He responded apologetically, as he skimmed through the last sheets available. 'You can take the stocks or the update on the Argentinian Earthquake?'

Burgie, Bill and Eugene snorted derisively at such a notion.

'One thing Snafu'll take the stocks for and that's ass wipe.' Bill quipped, keeping his nose firmly in the local announcements feature, perusing the columns for anyone he knew or anything he recognised.

Shelton sucked his teeth lazily. 'Na, Leyden, I'd use it to line the dirty mattress I'd fuck y'sister into.' He retorted. 'Only the Times'd cost more'n she do... be a waste.'

The statement earnt him a loud guffaw from Burgie and Jay, Bill smirked. 

'You hold onto your Stocks, Jay.' Shelton assured him, lightly. 'I'd rather listen to Sledgehammer read the latest about the boy hero, Basilone.'

Eugene, who had only been half-listening, glanced up from scouring a segment about the war in Italy. He'd hoped, in vain, for some new information about his brother's battalion - there was none.

'Here.' He muttered, distractedly, pulling one of his pages apart and holding it out for him. 'I got a double spread - you read it.' 

Shelton blinked. 'Na, I'll wait.' He responded, leaning back in the dirt as he smoked. 'You got a lovely bedtime voice.'

Eugene's eyes flicked up as he surveyed him. 'Y'know Snaf, I ain't ever seen you read.' He stated.

Shelton scoffed, shutting his eyes. 'Yeah, cos it's borin'... only losers like you read for fun.' His statement lacked malice, yet something close to scepticism settled in Eugene's chest.

He frowned at him, surveying the so-called 'Basilone article' still in his grasp.

It wasn't a Basilone centric feature at all... the title clearly read ' _War Bonds Drop Expected'_ did that mean... _no, because he knew that it had Basilone **in** it. _His eyes suddenly sank to the picture that had been facing outwards to Shelton's line of vision - the beaming face of John Basilone peered back, on the arm of some socialite. 

The sentence tumbled from his mouth before he had a chance to stop it. 'You _can_ read, can't you?'

There wasn't a moment's pause before Shelton's eyes sprang open and his leg flew out towards Eugene's thigh, stamping his foot against his skin as he kicked him.

'Course I can fuckin' read!' He spat furiously, his face contorting in anger.

Eugene cried out in response, grabbing the burning part of his leg where Shelton's boot had struck him.

'The fuck was that for?!' He demanded, through gritted teeth, clutching the point of impact. His thigh burnt and pulsated agonisingly. Feeling moisture, he raised his hand. Tiny speckles of blood covered his trouser and palm where the hobnails of Shelton's sole had punctured his flesh.

'Jesus, Snafu!' Burgie admonished, reaching round to slap the back of his head.

'Fucking psycho, he was only asking!' Bill agreed, knocking his own boot into Shelton's hip in reprisal.

He ignored them, training his eyes vengefully against Eugene.

Eugene glared back at him, heart pounding heavily, tears of pain threatening in his eyes as he tried to ignore the throbbing that ran down his left thigh.

Shelton dropped his gaze. A flash of something close to regret momentarily crossed his face, before he recovered himself, replacing it with a snarl. 

'Just cos you don't see people do shit don't mean they don't do it - you ain't ever seen me fuck a dame neither but I've more experience'n you, ya _fuckin' virgin_.'

The venom behind his sentence settled amongst the foxhole. Shelton looked down at his feet, settling back in on himself, whilst Eugene silently glanced down at his leg, his skin visibly mottling with mortification. The others looked on, awkwardly. 

'He's fucked Ball Peen's sister.' Jay interjected lightly, after a moment. He and Burgie snorted, the tension broken, all reference to Shelton's literacy forgotten. 

'She said he was only an itty bitty thing.' Bill interjected, measuring not an inch with his fingers.

They fell about laughing, whilst Shelton and Eugene sat sullenly in their corners.

Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the day, actively avoiding each other to a point that Ack-Ack chastised them both for their immaturity. Yet, for once, they did not heed the Skipper, the tension between them remaining palpable.

It was only after night had fallen, as they sat on opposite sides of their hole occasionally staring each other down, morosely, like aggrieved children after an argument, that Shelton finally spoke.

'How's your leg?' He asked, solemnly. 

Eugene glanced at him through the darkness, irritation oozing out of him at the sheer sound of his voice. 'Fucking sore.' He answered, rubbing it demonstratively. 'I could get jungle rot from that shit.' He added, dramatically.

He could just make out the whites of Shelton's eyes as he rolled them in response. 'You ain't gonna get jungle rot, _you girl_.' He replied, with a tut.

'No, Snafu, _try again_ \- you're looking for _I'm sorry_.' Eugene muttered, petulantly. When silence followed, he sucked his teeth - a habit he'd picked up from Shelton that his Mother simply would not have tolerated at home. 'Shut the fuck up, anyway, I don't want to speak to you.' 

An uncomfortable silence fell, broken only by the sound of Burgie and Jay snoring in the far end of the foxhole. This was unchartered territory; Eugene had never told Shelton to shut up. He watched from the corner of his eye as Shelton looked towards him uncertainly a few more times, his hands knotting together in his lap.

'I'm... sorry.' Came the stiff response a short while later.

Eugene's brow twitched and he glanced back at him.

In the entire time that Eugene had known him, he had never heard anything close to an apology fall from Shelton's lips. In fact, from the way he staggered so painfully over such alien words, it wouldn't have surprised him if this was the first apology that Shelton had offered in his twenty-something years.

Eugene smirked, feeling the irritation ease out of his chest. 'What for?' He pressed, staring at Shelton expectantly.

His confusion was almost audible.

'The fuck do you mean what for?' He rebuked, holding a hand out in objection. 'I _just_ asked ya how your leg were and you _just_ told me to say sorry and I said I was sorry!'

Eugene sighed dramatically, lighting a cigarette he'd borrowed from Bill. It was apparent, for whatever reason, that it was vitally important to Shelton to have his apology accepted. Most likely because the humiliation of lowering himself to actually offer one and having it refused deemed to be too much.

He was determined to enjoy every moment of the power switch.

'Yeah, but what're you sorry _for_?' He asked.

Shelton made a mumble in the back of his throat, dry and distant before he clicked his tongue, huffing a sigh like a petulant child.

'You know what I'm sorry for...' He trailed off. 'I'm sorry for kickin' you 'n shit... and callin' y'a virgin... and for...' There was a pause as he rummaged in his breast pocket. 'For stealin' these.' He added, withdrawing Eugene's cigarettes that had gone missing earlier that afternoon and tossing them at him. 'But y'shouldn't've left 'em on your bag when you had a piss.'

Eugene caught them, bemusedly.

It wasn't the best apology he'd ever had. In fact, it would have been an easier feat to get Deacon to withdraw his transgressions.

Yet, to his surprise, Shelton wasn't finished. He continued to reel off his misdeeds like a sinner at confession.

'And for... for lickin' your canteen earlier when you took a leak... but I was mad then!' He paused again. '...and for... for tellin' Burke and Redifer that you sniff Nips... that wasn't fair, makin' you out like a pervert or someth'n'.'

Eugene snorted, exasperatedly. 'That all you gotta be sorry for?' 

Shelton pondered the question. 'Mostly, I guess... why - d'ya want me to apologise for more? Cos I'm sorry I aimed my piss at you the other day too... I thought you'd find it funny... I didn't realise you was tryin' to eat.'

In spite of himself, Eugene laughed heartily, finding it frustratingly impossible to remain angry with him.

'Fucking idiot.' He muttered, affectionately.

'We good?' Shelton asked, hesitantly, tossing his burnt-out rollie to the floor.

Eugene nodded through the darkness. 'We're good.' He agreed, before pausing slightly. 'I'm sorry for asking you about readin' like that in front of the others, it wasn't my business. I didn't mean to embarrass you.'

Shelton huffed another noise and the air settled between them. He lit a fresh cigarette.

'I _can_ read.' He murmured, tightly, in a voice that made Eugene's neck prickle. 'I just... struggle to do it... specially wi' stuff like papers where it's crammed in all small.' The humiliation rolled off him in waves.

'Snaf, you don't have to explain anything.' Eugene responded, desperately trying to alleviate the tension between them.

Shelton ignored him, as he was so wont to do.

'It takes me time, I gotta sound it out and shit... like...' He trailed off, flicking his lighter absently. 'You can sit and just read but I've gotta really work at it... _I can do it, though_... I ain't no dummy.'

Eugene glanced down at his knees, feeling about an inch tall. He picked at a hole in his trousers. 'Wouldn't make you a dummy if you couldn't.' He remarked and Shelton scoffed. 

'Yeah?' He asked, bemusedly.

Eugene paused. 'How... how'd you get through school?' He asked, tentatively, unsure whether the question would cause Shelton to lash out again. 'Pass exams and that.'

The low chuckle alleviated his fears that he was speaking out of turn.

There was a silence. 'Never went to school.' Shelton responded, simply. 'Not after first grade, _quit_.'

'You quit school at eight?' Eugene repeated sceptically, such a notion seeming so inconceivable that he pondered for a moment whether Shelton was screwing with him. He was good at that. 

'About then.' Shelton answered indifferently, as though it were commonplace to never receive an education.

'Why?' He asked, incredulously.

Shelton scoffed. 'The depression not reach the Borj-wa-zee, Sledgehammer?'

Eugene smiled. 'Couldn't tell you - silver spoon was too far up my ass to notice either way.'

He earnt a loud snort in response.

'What 'bout writin'?' He asked, after a moment. 'Can you write?'

Shelton shrugged. 'Somewhat.' He said. 'Again... takes me time... longer'n readin'... I can't make the letters look the way they do in books – can never remember what they all feel like t'write.’ He paused. 'I can write my name real good, though!'

Eugene nodded as he processed the information that Shelton had waylaid made to him. It made him both uncomfortable and desperately sad.

He drew a mouthful of his cigarette. 'I can teach you.' He stated.

'Teach me what?' Shelton asked, dumbly.

'How to read and write.' Eugene murmured, hesitantly, unsure whether he was overstepping. 'When we get outta this shithole... back to camp... can get our hands on some paper... I'll teach you... show you how to do the letters and that.'

There was a painful pause and Eugene contorted in on himself, expecting another outbreak of anger. It never came.

'Yeah?' Shelton asked, after a moment.

'Yeah.' Eugene affirmed, with a confident nod.

They continued to smoke in silence for another few moments until Shelton spoke again.

'You still mad at me?' He asked.

Eugene shook his head. 'No.'

'Then get your ass here, I wanna get some sleep and I need somethin' to fuckin' lean on that ain't mud - your bony ass shoulder'll have to do.' 

'Way to make a guy feel special.' Eugene muttered, shuffling towards him obediently as they leant their backs against the edge of the foxhole.

They settled against one another, as they had grown accustomed to doing in the recent weeks when the mud was simply too thick to sleep against. Shelton resting his head down on Eugene's shoulder and Eugene settling his head against the top of Shelton's.

'Night.' He murmured, after a moment, tossing his butt into the dirt.

'Night, Eugene.' He responded, quietly.

It wasn't until months later that the subject came up again.

In fact, it was another world.

One where the thought of surviving tomorrow was a novelty; never mind long enough to return to relative safety and play school.

Long after Ack-Ack had died, after Haney had cracked, after they had finally left godforsaken Peleliu, after Shelton had gotten over his Malaria and miraculously shipped out with them not days later, after they had been sent back to Peleliu _again,_ and after they had been returned to Pavuvu _again._

When they had recovered from their exhaustion, were significantly cleaner and had started putting on a little weight. When their wounds had healed and their minds weren't as fractured, Eugene brought it up one afternoon as he and Shelton lay silently in their bunks, listening to the rainfall.

'You still wanna learn?' He asked, glancing up from his bible towards Shelton who was lazily blowing smoke rings up at the overhead.

He frowned confusedly, looking back towards him before a realisation clicked in his head. He nodded.

The entire process was laborious to a point Eugene regretted ever bringing it up. 

Shelton hadn't necessarily _lied_ as he had exaggerated his own abilities. He didn't take _time_ to read, he took _hours._

He tracked with his finger at a debilitatingly slow pace, mispronouncing every word he tried to sound out.

He barely recognised letters and argued when he was corrected.

His writing was even worse than his reading. He _could_ write his name fluidly, he'd been right about that. However, his hand was unintelligible. If you didn't know it was his name, you wouldn't have guessed, a five-year-old wrote neater.

His spelling was atrocious, his recall was shocking.

How he'd gotten so far in life? Eugene had no idea.

So they started from the beginning.

They went through the alphabet, picking out individual letters, recognising them in both print and different handwriting styles, then practising writing them down. He was stunned at the speed in which Shelton picked it up.

Yet his patience? As poor as expected. The tantrums that transcended from their learning together were legendary.

They had vowed to keep the endeavour between themselves _'ain't nobody's business'_ they had agreed. Yet, when you shared a tent with three other men, that was easier said than done. Especially when Shelton demonstratively dragged his rack out onto the awning three nights in the space of five, simply so as to not have to look at Eugene's _ugly ass privileged motherfuckin' face,_ any longer. 

Eugene spent most of the subsequent months at Pavuvu counting to ten and trying to remain calm as Shelton raged around him. Yet the effort was always in vain. Shelton's skill in life seemed to be knowing _exactly_ how to push his buttons; he thrived on it. As a result, within moments of their bickering, a full-blown argument always escalated.

_'Fucking Concentrate! No damn wonder you had to quit school!' - 'Sorry, we ain't all have time to go to fuckin' Julliard!' - 'Do you even know what Julliard is?! It's a musical theatre school!' - 'Of course, you'd know that ya fuckin' **dink!'**_

_'We're done here! Absolutely fucking done!' - 'That's what your Momma said after I ploughed her ass!' - 'My Mother is almost fifty years old, you degenerate. She runs a BOOK CLUB - don't be disrespectful!' - 'She a damn cougar is what she is. Has your hideous Buckethead to thank for her trashcan caboose, though!'_

_'Si ce n'était pas toi je te frapperais' - 'Don't fucking mutter at me in French.' - 'Well, you get mad when I mutter in English so what d'ya suggest instead?' - 'What about shutting the fuck up? You ever tried that?' - 'Yeah, it's as shit as your teachin'!'_

_'I_ _WISH I'D LET YOU DIE OF MALARIA!' - 'WELL BON SOIR, MOTHERFUCKER, YA DIDN'T!'_

_'I HAVE MORE CHANCE TEACHING A FUCKING NIP THAN YOU!' - 'ALWAYS BLAME THE STUDENT!' - 'YEAH - WHEN THE STUDENT'S YOU!' - 'YOU COULDN'T TEACH A BABY HOW TO SUCK HIS MOMMA'S TIT!' - 'YOU COULDN'T SUCK A TIT IF YOU TRIED, YOU'VE GOT SUCH BAD CONCENTRATION!' - 'I MANAGED TO SUCK YOUR...' - 'ONE MORE WORD ABOUT MY MOTHER AND I SWEAR **TO GOD** I WILL STAB YOU WITH MY KA-BAR!'_

Pencils were broken, furniture was tossed, paper was torn, books were ripped, feet were stamped. At points, fists were nearly thrown when the arguments got particularly nasty, until one either had the foresight to storm off or they were dragged apart.

Yet by the end of the night, after several hours of sulking and half a packet of cigarettes, Shelton would always return, head hanging low, shame ebbing off him as he sat himself down at the end of Eugene's rack.

'I'm sorry.' He would murmur, stiffly. 'Can we try again?'

That was the worst part of it for Eugene, no matter how angry he'd been. He could never say no to Shelton. 

They sat beneath the glow of the tent's oil lamp one night as Shelton worked on his _G's_. It was the last letter for him to get his head around, mistaking the orientation of the capital and the cursive. They were always back to front and occasionally upside down. 

'No.' Eugene admonished gently, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He pointed. 'You got the top part right but the tail's coming out the other end.' Shelton followed his gaze, brow frowning as he studied the advice he was given.

That was another thing that had shocked Eugene. In their more lucid moments, he found he actually had the capacity to tame Merriell Shelton into sitting the fuck down and concentrating.

Yet tonight did not seem to be one of those nights.

Shelton's jaw clenched with frustration as he attempted the _G_ again, only to repeat his mistake. Eugene sighed exasperatedly, as he watched as a flood of rage came over him.

He cast papers on their makeshift table onto the floor with a shout. 

'DON'T!' Eugene warned, having the foresight to retrieve the oil lamp placing it safely on the floor, before pointing his finger threateningly at the writing implement clutched in Shelton's fist. 'Snaf, _do not_ break that pencil!' 

He glared at him, pugnaciously, breathing heavily through his nose and he gripped the pencil, threateningly.

'Snafu!' Eugene enunciated, reaching forward and grabbing the end of it. 'Do. Not. Break. That. Pencil.' They jostled over it for a moment before Shelton relinquished his grip with a snarl and Eugene managed to yank it to safety. 

On cue, Shelton let out a yell of frustration.

'Fuckin BULLSHIT!' He shouted angrily, jumping to his feet and kicking his cot, before turning back, tossing ammo crates that served as a makeshift table into a pile and kicking them for good measure, too.

Eugene sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes in exasperation as he allowed him to get his defeatism out of his system. Shelton's meltdowns were, _to his credit,_ becoming rarer.

When they'd first undertaken the endeavour they had been daily, often multiple times a day. Yet whilst less frequent, they were still lengthy, lasting upwards of five minutes to half an hour, so he lit a cigarette and settled in for the long run. As a result, when Shelton immediately fell silent, Eugene's head shot up in surprise - his first thoughts being he'd either gone deaf or Shelton had given himself a heart attack.

He frowned to see him sat on the edge of his bunk, head clutched in his hands, face buried to his chest.

'Snaf, you done?' He asked, tentatively, terrified for a moment that Shelton's anger had descended into tears.

'I don't wanna do this anymore.' He murmured, tightly, voice wavering

Eugene expected relief to flood through him at the lack of crying, but it didn't. He sounded beyond tears; he sounded utterly, utterly broken.

His heart pounded with concern. 'Why?' He responded, hoping for a slur about his Mother or an insult into his height.

'I'm too fuckin' stupid.' Came the small reply.

A stone dropped in Eugene's stomach. That was a new one. The stone was immediately replaced by a tightening in his chest.

'No, you're not.' He responded instantly, moving to sit beside him. 'No, you _ain't_ stupid.' 

'Kids can do it, Gene.' He hissed into his knees. 'Fuckin' _kids_.' 

'Yeah - kids who've had years of being taught _by actual teachers.'_ Eugene resolved, re-pulling his battered cigarette packet from his pocket. 'Not two months worth of lessons from some Bamer with a high school diploma.' 

Shelton huffed, dryly and Eugene elbowed him, holding one out.

'I ain't letting you quit this.' He insisted, firmly.

Slowly, Shelton raised his head, reaching out to take a cigarette on offer, slowly placing it to his mouth and lighting it. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged at the curls in exasperation.

It was at that moment that Eugene got it. Finally, after months of watching his breakdowns, understanding why he became so riled.

Shelton wasn't angry, he wasn't frustrated, he wasn't irritated or annoyed at being told what to do. He was embarrassed. Bone deeply humiliated that he had reached his twenties with such a level of illiteracy. He felt stupid and inferior and worthless. It broke Eugene's damn heart.

'You done for tonight?' He asked, gently. 

Shelton took a drag, then another, then another. He sucked his teeth, then true to his nature, stubbornly shook his head.

'Got some Motherfuckin' G's to write.' He stood, walking over to the edge of Eugene's rack where they had been sat. Silently, he began to pile back the Ammo Boxes until the desk was reassembled. He lifted up the oil lamp and papers before sitting back down.

'Where's the damn pencil?' He hissed. 

With a smirk, Eugene lifted his cigarette back to his lips, crossing over towards him and retaking his seat beside him. He held out the pencil.

It was strange to feel so proud of him.

Especially after they had been through so much already.

Yet, there was something that they shared in the time alone together that Eugene couldn't place his finger on. Shelton had a motor mouth at the best of times. This was only exacerbated as he concentrated.

Oddly, he found it productive to talk as he worked.

He reminded Eugene of his science partner in Junior year, Donny Kendrick. That fucker _never_ shut up either. Throw in the fact, Donny had the BO and the Acne and the terrible unshaved fuzz on his top lip and was just so damn _annoying_ and the entire situation was utterly, utterly unbearable.

The same certainly could not be said for Merriell Shelton.

Eugene found the more Shelton spoke, the more he wanted to listen. He was handsome and funny and as much as he was convinced he could strangle him at times, meant more to him than he thought any friend ever had, more than any friend ever _would_.

Eugene had instantly felt terrible about having such thoughts against Sidney, as though his favouritism was a betrayal. But this was _different_ from how he felt about Sidney. More intimate.

If anything happened to Sid, he would be devastated. If anything happened to Shelton, he would never recover - his Malaria had proven that. 

The thought of waking up one morning and Shelton being gone made him feel physically sick. What he would do out here without him, he had no idea. He didn't want to know. Didn't want to even _think_ about it.

It was only as he lay in his rack that night that Eugene had come to the realisation that he had regarded him as handsome.

Additionally, unlike Donny Kendrick, who just talked _shit._ The more Shelton talked, the deeper he became.

Eugene had learnt all sorts of secrets during their lessons together - had been entrusted with more precious information about Shelton than any of the other men in the company combined - _even Burgie._

On the letter **_A_** , he had revealed to Eugene how his mother had walked out when he was eleven, leaving him and his sister alone with their Father.

He didn't blame her, marrying their Father had been the worst thing she'd ever done - s _ave for having babies with him_. They'd stayed in sporadic contact after she'd left. He always managed to track her down when home got especially bad and she would allow them to sleep on her kitchen floor for a couple of nights until their Father sobered up.

She'd died of TB when he was seventeen after an elongated separation. He'd missed both her death and the funeral. He liked to go and lay flowers at her grave. Although, he wasn't exactly sure where she was buried because there had been three poor holes dug that day. He picked the one near where the Magnolias grew because she loved flowers. He also demonstrated how she had also knocked his back molar out with a cast-iron skillet once.

On the letter **_E_ ,** he had told him of his sister. Essie. She was six, almost seven years his junior and he had managed to keep her home for almost five years after their Mother had left.

He had desperately tried to send her to school with a dime each day so that she could buy lunch and sit with the other kids in the cafeteria, often at the expense of his own food. He didn't mind though, because he knew how important it was to make friends at that age, _especially girls_. He wanted her to make good friends because you can always rely on good friends. He didn't have any way of making enough money for her to join a dancing class or anything like the other kids, so he'd assumed eating lunch with them was the next best thing.

When he was sixteen, he finally agreed to surrender her to foster care. Their Father had all but disappeared himself so her departure was a natural progression. They'd promised that she would be adopted out to a nice family. He had flipped the table when Eugene made the mistake of asking what happened to her, instead.

On the letter **_F_** , Eugene made the mistake of making him spell, _FATHER._

Shelton told him stories about his that made Eugene's hair stand on end, made his blood run cold and made him more than willing to _swim_ back to America to find him and beat the shit out of him, himself.

Shelton had smiled at that. Softly, his eyes crinkling in the light of the oil lamp that made Eugene's chest flutter, in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. 

He proceeded to inform him that he had cut all contact with him before he was eighteen. He occasionally bumped into him around New Orleans, but it always ended in a fight. He relished in the story of the first time he had rendered him unconscious. They had a particularly heated exchange outside a bar after his Father had had the audacity to mention his sister.

Amos had fractured his jaw. Shelton had swung back, knocked him straight out, given him a concussion, broken his nose and caused him to lose two of his teeth when he stamped on his face. _It had been great_ and completely worth eating the broth of Gumbo through a straw for six weeks until his jaw healed.

On the letter **_M_** , he had told him about himself. He was named after his Grandfather; it meant shiny sea or some shit.

He had spoken only French until going to school. He had been beaten each day because, to begin with, he couldn't speak English, then he simply _refused_ to speak English. He left entirely after he'd spat at the Priest when he'd called his Momma loose. It became a _whole thing_. He went pushin' out on the Bayou with his Momma after that, fishing for crayfish and crabs, it had been his job to jump in when the net got tangled.

They'd moved back to New Orleans when he was around ten and he'd gone to labourin' down the sawmill with his Daddy, he'd worked in lumbar ever since. He'd lived on the streets on and off for years. When the rent got too high and the work dried up, he would sleep in doorways, or in alleys, on park benches or in the train station waiting room. He'd tried going to the country to find work on farms, but he always missed the city too much.

On the letter **_S_** , he confessed that his sister had been sent to Wyoming on the presumption that she would be sent to a Foster home, _a nice Christian family_. Instead, she had been sent to work on a sugar beat farm where she spent the rest of her childhood working the fields.

He'd snapped the pencil and stated he'd have done her better than that if she'd been allowed to stay with him. He did resolve she'd learnt to read and write better than he ever did. She would, occasionally, send him letters that would take him days to read. He would pay one of the guys at work to write her back, but it was never the letter he wanted it to be. It had been a long time since she'd sent him a letter, though, _years._

Eugene had smoked for a very long moment before stating: 'You'll be able to write her all on your own - if you stop breaking my goddamn pencils.'

When he had lifted Ack-Ack's book out of the trash it had been partly for sentiment, partly because he knew he had a damn better chance of getting Shelton reading if it were something he found interesting.

He'd sworn at the sheer size of it when Eugene had placed it in front of him. 'Only thing I'll ever be able to do wi' this is knock someone out.' He resolved as he opened the front page. 'This is Ack-Ack's?' He stated, his brow twitching in confusion.

Eugene frowned for a moment. 'How'd'you know that?' He asked, with a grin.

'It says right there A. A. Haldane.' Shelton responded, pointing to the lettering. 'Fuckin' _Ack-Ack_.' 

Eugene quirked an eyebrow. 'Nice readin'.' He commended. 

Shelton stared back at him in bafflement, before realisation struck him.

He'd read without sounding out.

* * *

They received their orders to move out to Okinawa in March. Ack-Ack's book had to stay behind. With no paper and Eugene down to his final stub of pencil, they had to get creative.

It was bizarre watching Shelton read the bible, at first. Hell, it felt close to sacrilege. Yet diligently, he read on.

Eugene had been waiting until he could recognise words fluidly to show him the particular passage, in question. They sat together in their foxhole as he read.

' _Lot and his two daughters left Zoar and settled in the... mo... mo.._.' Shelton staggered.

'Break it down.' Eugene murmured, teeth clenched around the edge of his pipe, he raised his finger. 'M-O-U-N-T... what's that spell?'

'Mount...' Shelton concluded, brown contorted in concentration. 'Mount-a-in. Mount - ane. Mountain!' 

'There you go.' He grinned, elbowing him lightly. 'Keep goin'.'

'. _..settled in the mountains, for he was afraid to stay in Zoar_ \- like a boat _._ ' 

'Yeah, just with the Z.' Eugene agreed.

' _He and his two daughters lived in a cave_ \- the fuck? Are they goblins?'

Eugene snorted. 'Keep readin'.' He directed. 

' _One day the older daughter said to the y... yung... younger, “Our father is old, and there is no man around here to give us child..._ ' Shelton paused. He frowned, muttering lowly as he reread the sentence, a look of bemusement on his face. 'Is she...' He began. 

Eugene laughed again, he nudged Shelton's knee with his own. 'Keep reading!' He repeated.

' _Give us children—as is the custom all over the earth._ _Let’s get our father to drink wine and then... SLEEP WITH HIM!_ ' He cried out in sheer delight. 'The nasty whore! Fuck off, this ain't in the bible!' 

Eugene grinned. 'Knew you'd like it.' He stated. 

'Fuckin' you givin' me a dirty book to read, Sledgehammer.' Shelton muttered, delightedly. 'This what keeps you quiet in your bunk at night? Lock it away in the wank bank?' 

'You're disgusting.' Eugene refuted, pulling a face and elbowing him. 

Shelton shook his head. 'No.' He stated, squinting at the title. ' _Lot_ and his filthy ass daughters - _they're_ fuckin' disgustin'!' 

'Who's disgustin'?' Burgie asked, as he jumped down into the foxhole with a thud. 

'Characters in Sledge's dirty book.' Shelton answered. 

Burgie squinted. 'Ain't that your bible?' 

'He's cut out the scripture and replaced it with a fuck book.' Shelton announced, with a grin.

'Lot and his Daughters?' Burgie asked, bemusedly.

'How ever did you guess?' Eugene responded, laughing. 

Burgie snorted. 'What else do nine-year-old boys do in Sunday school?' He refuted, lighting his cigarette. 'He has both the maturity and the reading age of a nine-year-old so what's not to love.' He mimed tracking with his finger. 'A-E-U-RE-Snaf-Can't-Read.' He mocked, belittlingly, a grin plastered to his face.

The humour dissipated in the foxhole as quickly as it appeared.

Shelton slammed the book shut with a crack and passed it wordlessly to Eugene without looking at him. Eugene could feel his humiliation roll from him. His gut clenched with anger.

It had been an unspoken rule in the camp that no one commented on Shelton's literacy lessons. Mainly because he who did risked a fist fight. But also because it was just a dickish thing to do - especially when they knew how hard he'd tried to learn.

Yet since his promotion to Sergeant, Burgie had given less heed to the social norms that they had lived by. Hell, he'd given less heed to their _feelings_.

Something had changed in him since their arrival in Okinawa and not for the better.

He was snappy, he could be thoughtless, mean, willing to do _anything_ to impress higher-ranking officers - the complete opposite of the Burgie they had loved so fiercely. It made them uncomfortable; not that he seemed to notice - _or care_.

Maybe it was Burgie's oblivion to the fact that he had clearly upset Shelton that had made Eugene angry. Maybe it was because of what had happened at Christmas.

It had been the early hours of Boxing Day morning when Shelton had fallen face-first through the open tent into the dirt.

Eugene had awoken with a start, having put himself to bed at 22:00 following a day of drinking far too much hooch that a few corporals from Able Company had spent the best part of Fall brewing.

Shelton, on the other hand, had laughed at him, declaring the night still young as Eugene excused himself for the night.

He had clearly continued getting himself utterly soused, rendering himself the staggering mess that had scuttled into their tent.

After a few moments on the ground, Eugene had watched as he'd crawled the expanse of the dwelling, giggling to himself before appearing beside Eugene's bunk.

'Gene, you awake?' He shouted, in an attempt at a carrying whisper, fumbling to ignite the oil lamp at Eugene's bedside.

'No.' He responded stiffly, his head still fuzzy from the moonshine. He squinted blearily in the sudden light, struggling to take in full sight of the scene before him. 

Shelton was stripped down to solely his skivvies, save the red Santa hat on his head. 

'What the _fuck_ are you wearing?' He asked, bemusedly, leaning forward onto his elbows to pluck it off is head. 

'I won it in Poker!' He answered, proudly, before conspiratorially whispering. 'Hewitt from George has a tell.' 

Eugene rolled his eyes. 'Hewitt does not have a tell - you count cards.' He tossed the hat back to him, glancing Shelton up and down. 'Where the fuck are your clothes?' He asked, with a laugh.

Shelton grinned. 'I lost 'em in Poker.' He answered, lightly.

'May I add, you're _terrible_ at counting cards' Eugene said, with a dry chuckle.

'Says the boy _without_ a Santa hat.' Shelton responded, emphatically, shaking the aforementioned hat in his face. 

'Says the boy _still_ in possession of all of his clothes.' Eugene corrected him, yanking the offending item out of his grasp. 'What the fuck d'ya want? I was asleep.'

Shelton grinned.

'I got somethin' for you!' He stated, reaching into his skivvies.

Eugene pulled a face, screwing his eyes shut. 'I don't want anything you're keeping by your dick!' He admonished, before chancing an eye open.

Shelton looked back at him, confusion across his face.

'It's in my pocket.' He responded, dumbly. It took several beats for his hazy brain to register the cause of Eugene's revulsion. 'Oh I still got ma shorts on!' He announced, proudly, stumbling on his knees slightly. 'Look it!' He tugged the skivvies further down his hips revealing his cut off green shorts. 'Just lost my shirt and my shoes!'

'For Heaven's Sake...' Eugene slung an arm over his eyes as a smile played on his lips. 'Why do you have your Skivvies on over your shorts?'

Shelton grinned, wickedly. 'They ain't my skivvies - they Hewitt's.' 

Eugene snorted. 'What've you got for me?' He asked, propping himself up against his pillow. 'I'm... _fucked off my face_ and I wanna go back to sleep.'

Shelton clicked his tongue, disgustedly. 'It's Christmas, _vous rabat-joie_! ” He muttered, whilst he rummaged in his pockets.

Eugene watched bemusedly as he pulled out an assortment of knick-knacks and placed them onto his blanket - an engraved lighter, a ring, a Japanese pin, a lucky rabbit's foot, a pipe, a lone chopstick, a midnight blue marble... it was only as he pulled out a pair of eyeglasses that Eugene concluded that these must be his poker spoils.

He picked up the pipe. 

'You can have that if you want.' Shelton mumbled, absently. 'You can have any of it...' He added, gesturing to the pile. 'Not the chopstick, though, s'mine.' He reached for it, shoving it possessively back into his pocket.

Eugene smiled. 'Can I have the marble, too?' He asked, grinning as he reached for it.

Shelton nodded, emphatically, shoving it all towards him. 'You're always givin' me stuff!' He stated. 'And I ain't ever got shit t'give back... so y'can have any of it.' He paused. 'D'ya want the chopstick?' He asked, pensively. 'Cos that was real tight of me?' 

He reached back into his knee pocket where he had placed it, but Eugene held out as hand to stop him.

'You keep your chopstick, ya weirdo.' He murmured, affectionately, pushing his spoils back. 'You can keep it all - you earnt it... _with your shit card counting.'_

Shelton beamed, before Suddenly letting out a yelp of triumph when he withdrew a piece crumpled paper from the offending pocket.

'Knew I put it somewhere safe!' He announced. He glanced at it in his palm, before thrusting it towards him, wordlessly, as though he was worried he would lose his nerve.

If Eugene didn't know him better, he would swear he almost blushed bashfully with the realisation of what he had just handed over. Reaching over, he placed his newly acquired pipe and marble onto his ammo rack and took it from him, his brow twitching with intrigue.

It was a ripped off page from what looked like the back sheet of a book, that had been folded neatly in half. However, it had since become extremely crumpled during Shelton's game of dress-up.

'It's just some shit.' He muttered, quickly. 'Ain't nothing... just... stupid.'

He opened it as Shelton averted his eyes, as though suddenly sobering up.

Eugene blinked, a tightness spreading across his chest. 

'Snaf...' He murmured, his voice catching. He cleared his throat. 'Did... did you write this by yourself?' 

Shelton shrugged lightly, facing towards the tarpaulin wall as he shoved his winnings back into his pockets before he fumbled for his cigarettes. He nodded stiffly.

Warmth flushed Eugene's entire body.

He hated to think how long the note must have taken him to write.

The letters were the most articulate he'd seen in months of them practising, every single one of them faced the right way and was written fluidly. Each word was in proportion and spelt correctly, the spaces were a finger-width apart like he'd shown him. His handwriting was inconceivably better, nevermind completely legible. This must have taken _hours_ of attempts.

'It's just stupid.' He repeated, fiddling with his appropriated lighter as his neck flushed crimson, his back still to Eugene. 'You don't gotta keep it.'

Eugene reached a hand forward and touched his hip. Shelton jumped at the contact.

'It ain't stupid!' He responded, with such force that Shelton turned his head to look at him. 'And I _am_ gonna keep it.' 

A genuine smile broke across Shelton's face.

Eugene was delighted to see the mask of cynism he screwed on so tightly completely ripped from view beneath his alcoholic stupor, leaving only Shelton - the Shelton he felt he was the only one who really knew. 

'It's _really_ good, Snaf.' He continued, with a grin. 

His mind played to the care package he'd received from home. _The socks, the treats, the stationary set, the pictures, the letters_. 

Shelton had received _nothing_ and had even less to give - _save his poker spoils_.

This scrap of paper had taken more time and more thought and more effort and more energy than everything else he had received, combined. Most importantly, it came from him.

'D'you like it?' Shelton asked, bashfully, struggling to meet his gaze.

Eugene nodded. 'Best damn present I've had.' He resolved firmly.

Shelton beamed beneath the praise. He straightened himself, like a peacock ruffling his feathers. He clambered up onto the cot beside Eugene gracelessly, settling beside him on the pillow. Eugene shuffled over, making room for him, no longer having any inclination to go back to sleep.

'Look, I remembered the _C-H_.' He stated, pointing proudly. 'I had to read back in that book to check but I knew it had the _CH_.' He lowered his finger to the line below. 'And I put my name underneath - like you said people do in letters.' He continued, his joy blossoming under the attention cast upon him. 'And I did my spaces proper!' He added, ' But I used the side of my finger though else it looked a bit big... and...' He trailed off, catching Eugene's gaze.

Eugene wasn't sure at what point he'd started staring at him, mouth slightly agape.

Taking in his dark eyes, alive with excitement and self-esteem as he shared his diligence. The flush of his skin, a mixture of too much sun, alcohol and spent humiliation. His broad, lean shoulders, skin bronzed from months of heat, a slight speckling on his shoulders from burn scars. The blemishes across his arms and hands from their time in-country, marked forever from the stray mortars and shrapnel. His dark curls that half hung over his forehead, the rest knotted back from his face in a bun that he refused to cut because an officer had _advised_ _him_ his hair was too long.

Or his lips, red, moist and plump from all the _fucking talking_ he did _._

Eugene wondered when he'd stopped breathing. The air sitting caught within his lungs as Shelton raised a hand to his face, tentatively, as though he were terrified a sudden movement may spook him.

His heart pounded ferociously as the pads of Shelton's fingers rested against the skin of his cheek.

Eugene was overcome by the sudden warmth of his body beside his own, the scent of him filling his nostrils with affection and familiarity and... _something else entirely_. Eugene glanced down at the fingers resting tenderly against his skin - Shelton was never tender. His eyes tracked along his hand, before raising his gaze back to Shelton's face.

He was unsure whether this was what he had wanted for months, whether he wanted to be sick in revulsion at both Shelton's actions or his desperate want for them, or simply a mixture of both.

They sat frozen. For how long he had no clue. Alcohol both fueling them and freezing them.

It was only the sound of Bill's voice suddenly coming into earshot that caused Shelton to jump back from his bed, crawling towards his own cot, without another word.

As Eugene still lay awake in his rack as the sun crept up, he came to a sickening realisation - their faces had been crawling towards one another.

They never spoke of it again.

Hell, Eugene was positive if he ever had the gumption to ask, Shelton would scoff at him, accuse him of lying because he'd been too drunk to remember it or punch him for being queer, perhaps an accumulation of all three.

But Eugene remembered it. Eugene remembered every moment of it, every minuscule detail.

From the way that Shelton's hands had shaken with excitement as he showed the letter, or the way his brow had given the slightest twitch of disappointment when he thought Eugene wasn't listening to him, or the way his eyes had shot from Eugene's own to his cheek, to his mouth, to his hand and backwards and forwards, before they'd settled on his face or how he'd bitten his lip ever so slightly, or how he smelt like smoke, really _bad_ bootleg Whiskey and so intoxicatingly _him_.

Mostly, Eugene remembered how he'd made him feel and how empty he'd become once he'd left.

Eugene remembered.

Even if Shelton didn't. Even if he wouldn't.

After Burgie's insult, Shelton had climbed out the foxhole a short while later, claiming he needed a piss. In reality, he wanted to scuttle away, to hide behind a rock to chain smoke and lick his wounds, in peace. An insult from Burgie always struck him differently to anyone else.

'Burg, watch what you say to him.' Eugene stated, lowly. Purposefully keeping his voice quiet so Shelton wouldn't overhear if he was close by. _He didn't need humiliating any further._

Burgie frowned at him, confusedly. 'What d'you mean?' 

'Bout his readin' and shit... ain't fair.' He responded. 'You know how he feels about it... you really hurt his feelin's then.'

Burgie scoffed, unpleasantly, in a way that was entirely unlike him. 'He fuckin' needs to man up - we're at fuckin' war and he's pissin' about playin' school.'

A chill ran down Eugene's back.

'Don't be a dick, Burgie.' He countered, his voice like gravel. 'We don't need you remindin' us we're are war, _thanks anyway_.' 

He laughed again, placing his cigarette into his mouth.

'Could'a fooled me.' He answered. 'Okinawa different from Peleliu, you need to _focus_... we're here to _do a job_ not fuckin' _learn_.'

Eugene held his gaze silently. It was like sitting in a foxhole with Luitenant Mac.

Burgie continued. ''sides since when do we give a shit about his fuckin' feelings like he a princess? This is Snafu we're talking about. Snafu don't give a shit about other people's feelings.'

Eugene's mind flashed. 

Shelton shot rats. Shelton made them laugh. Shelton emptied his carbine into the fucker who'd thrown a grenade at Bill. Shelton opened cans for Boots who struggled. Shelton shared his cigarettes. Shelton sat with Burgie and smoked when he missed Florence, too much. Shelton defended them against _anyone,_ regardless of rank. Shelton wrote notes. Shelton touched his face.

'That ain't fuckin' true and you know it.' He shot back, with such a finality in his voice that Burgie's eyes flicked to him and his brow twitched. 'I didn't _ask you,_ Burgie.' He added. 'I _told you_ , watch what the fuck you say to him.' He clenched his jaw. 'Watch what the fuck you say or we're gonna have a problem.'

Burgie blinked, cocking his head slightly. 'Sledge, you're talking to a _superior officer_.' He stated, stiffly, his pride wounded.

Eugene frowned, the statement settling uneasily in his stomach as an aggrieved smile played on his lips. 'No... I _ain't_ , Romus.' He responded, staring Burgie down. 'I'm talking to our friend... he still in there... or you too good to associate with us now you're a sergeant? Or d'you just not care that you make us feel like shit?'

A brief look of realisation passed Burgie's eyes.

He stammered. 'That... I...' He trailed off, brow twitching. There was a paused, before he nodded. 'You're right.' He murmured, having the decency to look ashamed of himself. 'I didn't... mean... I didn't mean to upset him.' 

Eugene flicked an eyebrow. 'Just think about it.' He answered, stiffly, before opening his bible up, plucking the note he had concealed from Shelton out of his breast pocket and tucking it back into the spine before he put it away. 

Okinawa was going to be different, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I would love to know what you think!
> 
> * Title is a quote from Mark Twain. *
> 
> ** SPOILER - I do my boy Burgie DIRTY from here on in. **
> 
> *** Font usage from https://fontmeme.com/fonts/magnus-handwriting-font/ ***


	5. A man who thinks of nothing but his horses, his farm yard and his wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shelton fights for Eugene.
> 
> When an accident happens in the middle of the jungle and Eugene is injured, it's down to Shelton to ensure he gets to safety.
> 
> Regardless of whatever or whoever the obstacle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a real labour of love. 
> 
> I've argued with it, loved it, hated it and considered scrapping the entire bloody thing... in response, it retaliated by only getting longer and I have absolutely failed at cutting it down! 
> 
> I intended to cut it in half... yet somehow probably only managed to get rid of a paragraph and if anything somehow managed to double the damn thing - so I've officially given up! Get your reading glasses, you'll need them!
> 
> I'm heeding the assurance that you all like long chapters... so fill your boots!
> 
> Here's 19,000 words worth of "long chapter"... though technically this may fall into novella category? 
> 
> Thank you for your patience with the update; I hope it's worth the wait!

They had arrived in Okinawa on a Thursday in early-March, one of the first platoons to reach the island, drenched through to the skin and saturated from head to foot with mud. The promise of rain had sounded incredible after the months of unbearable heat on Pavuvu, yet in reality, the novelty had worn off within thirty seconds.

The Am-Traks were forced to ground to a halt twenty feet short of their landing point on the half-destroyed docks. Their engines whirred desperately against the heavy onslaught of mud surrounding its wheels as they tried to reach a safe ground to disembark. 

Eventually, the operation was abandoned - the operators declaring they were too deeply stuck in the sludge. Subsequently, the men were ordered to evacuate into the waist-deep mud below.

Obediently, they clambered in their dozens up the mesh netting, launching themselves over the side and falling with a despondent _splat_ into the stinking bog below, in which the vehicles were entrenched.

Though he could not be positive, Shelton had a suspicion that the hand that shoved him off the edge of the Am-Trak had belonged to none other than Burgie, who had been at his tail. Regardless of the perpetrator, the move caused him to lose his balance, falling over the edge and tumbling face-first into the fetid dirt.

He let out an inadvertent cry, barely having time to shut his eyes let alone his mouth on impact, amidst the jeers of his platoon-mates.

Two sets hands wrenched him from the bog as quickly as he'd fallen in, yanking him out with a _squelch_ as he coughed and wretched, gasping against the mud he'd swallowed. He scrubbed at his eyes, dirt cold, slimy and unbearably gritty as it clung against his skin and eyelashes. He glanced up to see Bill and Webster, another rifleman, as his rescuers.

'Fuckin' idiot.' Bill remarked, yanking him back to his feet.

'You're as graceful as a fuckin' elephant.' Webster added.

'Keep marchin'!' Came the order. 

With no time to compose an eloquent reply, Shelton spat into the mud. He began to trudge, pulling spittle through his teeth as he tried to saturate his muddy mouth, in a desperate attempt to clean it. 

'Spa day, Snaf?' Burgie's jovial voice interjected from behind him, followed by titters from the others. He turned, vision still somewhat hazy as they waded, struggling against the waist-deep filth.

'Did you push me?' He asked, above the heavily increasing rain, his voice stuck between disbelief and anger.

Burgie frowned at him, shaking his head. _Of course, Burgie didn't push ya, y'fuckin' idiot._

'You slipped.' Came the response and Shelton halted, turning on his haunches to face Burgie.

Rage and humiliation engulfed him. _It **had** been Burgie's hand._

'You bastard, you...' He began, but a hand on his shoulder shoved him forward.

'Keep fucking movin', Shit'n'Ass.' Bill's voice sounded, passing him a relatively clean rag that he'd drawn from his breast pocket. 'Can pound this out when we on dry land.' 

Yet no dry land was to be found.

They arrived on Okinawa filthy, their uniforms more mud than fabric, sopping wet beneath their helmets from the stormy rain that battered down upon them - there was no energy to settle such a mundane a dispute.

The stench hit them immediately upon their arrival. A mixture of festering mud, stale gunpowder, dirty bodies and just _rotting -_ it was sickening. As they settled in for a rest stop, the adrenaline from shipping out finally began to ebb from Shelton.

From an accumulation of the filthy dirt he had ingested, the nausea of the boat ride and the overwhelming fumes of the island, he struggled to his feet, bending forward and emptying the contents of his stomach behind a cluster of rocks.

'Jesus.' Bill interjected, from his position opposite him. 'Why you always goddamn hurlin'?' He muttered. 'Fuckin' _Sickfu -_ wait til he starts shittin' again... live up to his name!'

A familiar laugh sounded above him, he glanced up to see Eugene dropping his pack to the dirt beside Bill. He had been in the second wave of Am-Traks, yet from the sight of his uniform, he had shared no cleaner a fate than they did.

Shelton managed to raise an eloquent middle finger to Bill's quip earning him a raucous laugh in response.

A hand pressed to his back, rubbing in circles. 'Get it up.' Eugene's voice urged. 

Shelton heeded his advice, heaving another twice, three times as the muddy bile fell from him, his stomach griping with complaint. Eugene's warm palm served as a stabiliser, a lifeline, not that he would ever admit as much. It was a relief to see him, his presence immediately quelled his uneasy nausea.

A second hand passed him a water bottle.

He glanced up to see Burgie stood above him, a look close to contrition on his face.

'Swill your mouth.' He urged as Shelton accepted the canteen. 'Now spit.' He did as he was told. 'Again, get it all up - you swallow that you'll get fuckin' dysentery.'

'Might liven the next few days up.' Eugene interjected, thoughtfully. 

Burgie grinned, looking more like himself than he had done for weeks. At least, since his promotion.

'You pin him down I'll shove his face back into the mud.' He countered, clapping Shelton on the back.

He slapped a hand out against him before taking several long mouthfuls of water and straightening up.

'Fuckin' try.' He responded, his anger easily dissipating at the sight of his old friend. 'I'll shove those stripes so deep down your throat you'll need surgery t'remove 'em.' He assured him, a grin etching onto his face.

That was the thing about Shelton; he never was any good at bearing grudges against those he loved. Even when he knew they deserved it.

He pressed a hand into Burgie's chest pushing him, jovially.

It was easy to forget like this, even if just for a moment. Forget that they were at war, forget what the next five minutes might hold, forget they might be dead by evening.

In moments like this, they were the young men they were supposed to be, that they could have been. Just boys roughhousing with their friends.

Burgie guffawed, lunging forwards and gripping him into a headlock as Eugene rolled his eyes. Shelton spat his final mouth load of dirt into the mud before grabbing him around the waist as they scuffled. 

'Sledgehammer!' Burgie cried, ducking out the way of Shelton's hand as he attempted to grab him by the underside of his arm. 'Get the mud.'

'Gene, kick him in the back of the knees!' He countered. 'The fucker pushed me in mud.'

Eugene only laughed, settling into the sopping ground as they awaited orders, shaking his head as he pulled his pipe from his pocket and began to pack it. 'You two scrap this out between yourselves.'

'Sergeant!' 

The sudden interjection made Burgie stand to attention, immediately. Mac stood before them, notably cleaner and more put together. He cast a glance between Burgie, Shelton and Eugene. 

'What example are you setting fighting with a Private?' He asked, stiffly. 

Shelton rose back to his feet, watching as Burgie disappeared before his eyes, replaced with _Sergeant Burgin_.

'A bad one, sir.' Burgie responded. 'Sorry, sir.'

'Private First Class, _actually.'_ Shelton muttered, belligerently, settling down next to Eugene. 

'Trust me, Shelton, that _can be corrected_.' Mac assured him sternly, keeping a cynical eye on Burgie. 'Remember, Sergeant.' He pressed a finger to Burgie's grubby chest. 'You have a _responsibility,_ here.' He paused. 'You ain't their friend.' 

Burgie paused. 'No, sir.' He agreed.

A ripple passed through Shelton and Eugene, they glanced at one another uncomfortably.

Their separation had undeniably been growing in the recent weeks, yet never had Burgie so outwardly admitted it.

'Go round up the stragglers.' Mac concluded. 'We move out in ten minutes, we need to do an Ammo Check.' 

'Yes, Sir.' Burgie repeated. Mac nodded, gave a finally disparaging look towards Eugene and Shelton and walked away, shouting out to another group as he went. 

' _Yes, sir. Yes, sir.'_ Shelton mocked, grinning up at Burgie, goadingly. 'Fuck me, Burg, lose y'backbone with y'promotion?'

Burgie cast his gaze to him mirthlessly. 'Fall in, the pair of you.' He stated, firmly, in a manner completely unlike himself. 'And no more fuckin' about.' 

Eugene pulled a face. ' _You_ put _him_ in the headlock.' He interjected with a frown, unsure whether Burgie was joking.

'Did I ask you, Eugene?' He added, attempting to brush his uniform down of some of the mud before striding away in a pace that matched Mac's.

Bill raised his eyes from his position, not five feet away. 'Who's chewin' on his ballsack?' He asked.

Eugene smirked, casting a glance sideways to Shelton who sat there darkly, sucking angrily on his cigarette. 

'Same person as usual.' He muttered, dryly. 'You heard _Searge,_ boys - let's move out.'

They huffed through their noses, finishing their smokes and preparing to fall in once again. 

* * *

Everything had started to change since Burgie had received his, _admittedly,_ well-deserved promotion shortly before their shipment to Okinawa. His chest had bloomed proudly as he stood to attention during the makeshift parade. 

_'The third boy of eight farming children, he's never found an outlet - a way to shine.'_ Was how Eugene had phrased it when Burgie's self-importance had begun to flourish. ' _It makes him feel special, makes him feel important.'_

 _'Prefered it when he just talked 'bout his damn cows the whole time.'_ Shelton had responded.

Regardless of Burgie's egotism, three notable things had happened in the interim from his promotion to their shipment.

Firstly, they had gotten very, _very_ drunk. Drunker than Shelton had got at Christmas, drunker than _Owens from Jig on Memorial Day._ So drunk that they had awoken dotted along the beach with very little memory of what happened the night before. It took them forty-five minutes to eventually track Burgie down, still fast asleep, trussed up against a tree by his bootlaces. _NCO_ was daubed across his forehead in a style suspiciously similar to Shelton's newly evolved hand.

Secondly, Burgie had started using new phrases like: _'When you look at the overall scheme of things'_ and talking incessantly about his next promotion. He fully intended to make Gunnery Sergeant by the following Christmas. _'I'm'a be just like Ack-Ack, just watch!'_

He had repeated the sentiment over and over each night. They tolerated it for almost a week until Shelton had sat up in bed, grabbed his boot and launched it at Burgie with full force, hissing _'No you ain't, cos Ack-Ack let us fuckin' sleep!'_ As he'd lain back down, Burgie had hissed. 

_'First thing I'm gonna do is put your ass on latrine duty!'_

Bill and Eugene had scoffed lightly into their pillows and assumed that was all that would be said on the matter.

_It wasn't._

By the time the third incident happened, Shelton had been unsure what had been his most confounding moment of the war to date.

Before _that_ particular morning, it had been a toss-up between two. 

Either watching Gunny Haney scrub his cock and balls with a brillo brush in the showers. Or watching Landry, a fellow Cajun, almost drown in ten feet of hidden mud after taking a wrong step as they debated the rationality of having one's red-bean-and-rice-night on a Thursday.

Both events were completely knocked to the wayside the moment that he and Bill arrived in the mess hall to find Burgie sat with Mac and several other officers at the NCO table.

Shelton's mouth had hung open as he struggled to regain his composure, whilst Bill dropped his cigarette in shock, yelping as the burning tip dropped to his sandalled foot.

Burgie had glanced over at the noise, glared his eyes at them and jerked his head away - urging for them to _Fox Opal._

They had barely eaten, watching bemusedly as he laughed at the superiors' jokes and allowed himself to be clapped on the back by Mac.

The act was an attrition of boundaries. Lower-ranking marines simply did not sit with the superiors.

Until Eugene pointed out that technically, Burgie was too an officer.

They laughed to themselves at the utter peculiarity of such a notion and continued with their meal. Eugene and Bill waving each time he happened to glance in their direction, Shelton offering lewd and inappropriate gestures.

They expected it to be a one-off, Burgie fraternising with the superiors... yet it wasn't.

It happened again the following dinner, then the lunchtime after that, then the breakfast after that. It built up until Burgie began eating virtually all of his meals with Mac and whoever else was dining at the time.

He began to play Poker with them of an evening, began to go on walks with Mac as they discussed the progress of the war.

It was around then, for the first time in the two years of being at one another's sides, that Shelton finally began to recognise his greatest childhood phobia within Burgie - Superiority.

Since he was a boy, the simple notion of authority had made him aggressively uncomfortable.

It was a fight or flight mode. Regardless of who that authority figure was - a parent, a teacher, a policeman, a doctor, a priest, _an officer -_ they always shared one overwhelming similarity; they believed themselves to be better than everybody else. _Better than you._

Aggression and hostility were the only responses that a superior figure understood.

The thought that Burgie was now one of them, despite having stood with him, fought with him, laughed with him, hurt with him... that destroyed Shelton more than he would ever admit. More than he ever could. It was a betrayal, unlike anything he had ever experienced.

It was subtle at first; Burgie's decline into ascendancy. So subtle that Shelton barely noticed it, at first. In hindsight, he wondered whether he had been in a state of denial. 

Eugene had been torn a new strip for having stubble on his face during firing practice. ' _Gene, it's important to be respectable.'_

Bill had been brewing a rice-based Hooch in the back of the tent - until Burgie had discovered it. ' _Fuck Bill, I'm an NCO that's irresponsible to have that shit in my tent.'_ They'd yelped like burnt children as he'd taken the near-perfect moonshine and pitched it into the sand.

Shelton and Eugene had caste a series of new Boots out the tent with a cold shoulder. _'You're no more special than them... next time new Boots come in you're sharing - no complaints.'_

The more time he had started spending with Mac, the worse Burgie's superiority had become. 

Whether it had been the subtleties or outright denial, there was no denying Burgie's superiority by the time they shipped out to Okinawa.

They shivered in foxholes with filthy faces and shredded uniforms, shaken from watching six of their comrades be blown up by a clandestine explosive. Bill twitched in his corner, rocking from his own recollection of being blown up by a grenade. _'I know it's bad, boys, but losses are expected. Get ready to gear up and move out. Bill, why are you shaking?! Square up, you're supposed to be a damn Marine.'_

He and Eugene sat together as he deliberated over the bible, painstakingly deciphering the words. Feeling more human than he could physically remember being. _'He has both the maturity and the reading age of a nine-year-old so what's not to love... A-E-U-RE-Snaf-Can't-Read.'_ The callousness in the laugh had drawn sweat to his skin, humiliating him and belittling him in a more painful way than his Father ever had. Because they'd trusted Burgie. They'd loved Burgie.

They were asked for volunteers to go and scout the track. Their numbers had depleted by almost half in three weeks. Nobody moved, every single one of them keeping his gaze to his boots. Burgie turned to them with a shake of his head and a despondent huff through his nose. _'Yella-bellies.'_ He hissed, before climbing to his feet and offering himself for the mission. 

Yes, Burgie's ascension of his own self-importance had been subtle at first, until it bore the same elegance of an M1 Charlie Tank.

* * *

Eugene lay in their foxhole one night, simply weary with the strain - the depravity and the sheer terror inflicted upon them each moment proved _utterly exhausting_.

A stream of tears fell silently beneath the clandestine cover of darkness, as his thumb twitched against the flint of his lighter, in his grasp. The flame was so low on gas that it barely ignited, but its weak fire up provided an activity for his unsteady hands.

Burgie's seething voice suddenly sprang through the heavy silence as he jumped into the foxhole that Eugene shared with Shelton.

'The fuck are you doing, you idiot?!' He hissed, ripping the lighter from his grasp. 'You, stupid shit! You'll get us spotted! If the Japs spot us, it'll be _your fucking fault._ '

Eugene only lowered his gaze, offering no argument in return.

He pocketed the lighter. 'I'm keepin' this tonight.'

He moved to climb out when Shelton spoke.

He had remained the silent figure on the opposite side of the foxhole watching Eugene's activities with his hawklike gaze, knowing from past experience that it was best simply to allow him to wallow in his own sadness, alone. He'd been so silent, that Burgie had clearly assumed him to be asleep.

'That ain't yours, give it 'im back.' He said, voice like gravel, as he trained his eyes provokingly at Burgie.

Rage pumped through his veins, _Burgie should know better than to fuck with Eugene, by now_.

'I'm confiscatin' it.' Burgie answered, stiffly. 

Shelton scoffed, dryly. 'Who the fuck you think you are? _Confiscatin' it?'_ He glared at him. 'Haney gave 'im that. You give it the fuck back or I'll knock you on y'ass so damn hard you'll be walkin' with a limp for the rest of this war, y'hear me, Burgie?'

'Watch your mouth, Snaf.' Burgie responded. 

There was a clink and Shelton lit his lighter, pilfered from the body of one of the newest boots.

It had clearly been a gift from home, brand new and well gassed, the flame illuminated almost the entire foxhole, far more impactfully than Eugene's.

He cocked his head to one side. 'Now _this'd_ get us found.' He stated, glaring at him chillingly.

Burgie lunged for him to dampen the light.

Shelton ducked to the side, causing Burgie to slip against the warmed mud in the space he had vacated and cascade to the muddy waters at the bottom of the foxhole. He let out a victorious laugh as he watched him flail in the icy puddle. Before he recovered himself, launching back towards himself, far more successfully. Burgie managed to grab him and suddenly the tussled - like he had when they first arrived on Okinawa, only there was no joviality in their scrapping anymore.

'Stop fucking fighting!' Eugene interjected desperately, his voice quivering. 'Just stop _fucking_ _fighting!'_

They stilled, looking towards him. 

'You're _best fucking friends_ and this is what you've become? Rollin' in the mud like dogs over who has the most goddamn power.' He broke off, the thickness of his voice lying heavily in the hole. His crying was inescapable.

Shelton acquiesced, releasing the front of Burgie's shirt and lowering himself obediently back into the mud.

'He wants the fucking lighter? Let him keep the fucking lighter.' Eugene muttered. 'I don't give a shit... _Like it matters._ ' He curled in on himself.

Burgie stilled, glancing between them as he rose back to his feet, wearing the expression he so often did when he realised just how differently he had treated his friends. Yet his apologies were non-existent these days, most likely for his fear that they would be rejected.

Burgie used to be excellent at apologies.

He pulled the lighter from his soggy pocket, it weighed as heavily in his muddy hand as it did on his conscience. There was a dull thud as he tossed it back into Eugene's lap.

He ignored it, letting it lie there, indifferently, his face tucked against the dirt wall. 

'Mind the fucking light or _I will take it_.' He muttered, before glancing back at Shelton who stared up at him belligerently. He looked back to Eugene, as though only noticing for the first time how much of a toll the recent weeks were having on him. 'You OK?' He asked, hesitantly.

Eugene gave a small scoff into the darkness, a sound that ripped straight through Shelton's chest. He lowered his gaze to his lap, the knowledge that there wasn't a thing he could do to help, rendering him feeling utterly, _utterly_ useless.

'I'm fine.' He muttered. 'Just both of you - _leave me alone_.'

With a nod, Burgie left.

Leaving Shelton alone to continue watching him through the darkness.

It wasn't until hours later that the chink of the lighter resumed, the low flame providing Shelton with some assurance that Eugene was slowly climbing out of his mental slump.

After he had watched Eugene's head sank against his chest and his lighter sink back to his lap, Shelton finally allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

In preparation for another day of anarchy, the next morning.

* * *

According to Eugene, they had been in the hell-mouth for twenty-six tallies, making it sometime in early April.

As the weeks had leaked on, Shelton had concluded that 'desolate' was the only word that adequately described Okinawa.

The Jap here was unlike any Jap they had ever encountered; their desperation as the Marines encroached onto their territory made them even more heinous than usual.

There were savage, remorseless, _monstrous._ They bayed not just for blood; but for agony. They appeared from nowhere, armed to the hilt, flourishing in the suffering they caused each marine by administering excruciatingly slow or painful deaths.

The mood had of the platoon had changed dramatically since Jimmy and Keats had been sent to scout the trail by the hill.

Their mutilated bodies had been discovered the following morning, the injuries adorning them being simply too unbearable to discuss. Their last moments too harrowing to even consider.

They were helpless but to realise that they would be next. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even this week. But their time was limited. They were walking on borrowed time; you would be an idiot not to admit as such.

Each day that went by left K-Company even more shattered - there was simply no respite, no escape. 

They watched as their friends leaked away by the hour. They would start a day terrified of how many would be left, whether they would be left. _Simply terrified._

Their horror had amplified beyond all reason, the day that the first child exploded in front of them.

He had been little more than a baby as he trudged clinging onto the hand of his Mother. He had been a baby then he had been a bomb, the stench of his insides clung to them as his blood mottled their uniform. _Another casualty of this fucking war._

They were broken after twenty-six tallies in Okinawa.

So fractured, that each of them knew, if, by some utter fluke, they were to survive, they would never be the same again.

Shelton wouldn't survive; he knew that.

Frankly, he didn't particularly care one way or the other. If things were different, he would willingly take a bullet to his chest and end it tomorrow. But he had one thing that kept him ploughing one boot in front of the other, firing one mortar after the last, fighting so hard just to see tomorrow.

_One person._

_Who would look out for him if Shelton was gone? Certainly not Burgie._

Yet, even that wasn't enough to stop Snafu from returning - angry, belligerent, bloodthirsty, with a pocket full of gold teeth.

Snafu returned because of Shelton's utter hopelessness. He saw no point in fighting him anymore - he could work a gun, that was all that mattered.

The Shelton of Okinawa was a stranger to the version of himself from Pavuvu.

He was as indifferent and as hostile as he had been upon Eugene's first arrival to the war.

He lacked empathy or humour. He lacked kindness or tolerance. He lacked comradery or joy. _He lacked himself_.

They were sat waist-deep in the mud one evening, batting away dozens of flies as they picked at their K-Rations when Eugene had begged him to open up. 

'Don't shut me out.' He pleaded, staring imploringly at him with his dark, doe eyes. 'You ain't got nothin' you can't talk to me about.'

Shelton had stared at him. He had his bottom lip sat caught between his top teeth, as it so often did when he was upset. His red hair coated in dirt, his face filthy, his expression frantic. 

_He's frightened without you._

Shelton searched within himself to find the man who had written the note at Christmas, yet he found nothing. He glared at him, instead.

 _If he became a stranger_ , he'd rationalised, _if he meant less, his loss wouldn't hurt him so bad - wouldn't be as impactful. If he can learn to function without you when you're still here, he'll be fine when you're not._

'Don't be a pussy, Eugene.' He responded, stingingly, watching as he winced. 'Y'supposed to sleep, you're up in a few hours and y'as good as dead without any shut-eye.'

Eugene hadn't asked again.

In fact, he stopped trying at all several days later.

He had been daubing in his bible as they waited to move out.

There was a lot of that on Okinawa; waiting. It gave them too much time to stew; too much time to dwell on everything.

Eugene held his bible out to Shelton. 'Want to have a go?' He asked, tentatively.

Shelton rolled his head, casting his gaze to the item in his hand before lifting his eye line to Eugene's. 

'No.' He responded, tightly, letting his eyes sink shut. He had no inclination to engage, either with such a worthless skill or with Eugene.

'Why?' He demanded, irritably. 'You're moanin' about bein' bored... do somethin' productive.'

Shelton let a derivative titter out through his nose before returning his eyes back towards him.

'It's a waste o'both our time you learnin' a corpse, Gene.' He breathed.

Eugene stared back at him.

Shelton watched his Adam's Apple bob as he swallowed tightly; re-clutching his lip back between his teeth as the words settled.

He made the mistake of glancing down then, noticing the Goose Bumps ran the length of Eugene's exposed arms beneath his sopping uniform. When he raised his gaze back to his face, with a twist in his gut, he saw Eugene desolately staring down at his outstretched book, then back to his knees. He rescinded his hand, dropping it back into his lap. 

Shelton licked his lip, his conscience making its first piteous objection to his behaviour in weeks. He wanted to find the words to say something, to make it better, to alleviate their fears, to alleviate their hopelessness. He wanted to say _anything._ Yet nothing came to mind as Snafu held control and he remained silent.

After a moment, Eugene tucked his book back into his breast pocket. 'Go fuck yourself, Shelton.' He hissed, before stumbling to his feet and climbing out of the foxhole.

He returned later, with his eyes reddened and his face streaked. Shelton didn't mention it.

It was too dangerous to engage at all, anymore.

* * *

Perhaps the worst aspect of the Okinawan Japs was their invisibility, they focussed on large groups, appearing from nowhere and annihilating them in their dozens.

It was discovered very early on, that companies stood a far greater chance of reaching their destination unscathed if they moved in smaller groups. If a regiment was divided; split into ten men or less then the number of casualties could be kept minimal. More often than not, they could move unnoticed.

That was how it happened.

K Company received the order that they must report to the captured Yomitan airbase by 10:00 in two days time, ready to report for active duty against the Japanese armies at the Motobu Peninsula by April 11th. The future of the offensive was dependent upon it.

Most importantly, there were assured that upon their arrival they would have at least a day or two downtime - with showers, clean uniform and proper bunks.

One of the new Boots cried at the prospect. Not a single man mocked him for it.

As they geared up, they received their instructions and their new ammo, splitting into their subsections as was now procedure - Mortars, Riflemen and Intelligence were disbanded.

There was an ominous feeling as they separated, as there always was, this time no more than any other. So what made Eugene do it, no one was quite sure.

'Bill!' Eugene called. Shelton glanced up at the interaction.

Bill turned, fastening pack onto his back as he readied to leave, ashen-faced. Eugene reached into his pocket and pulled out his bible.

Climbing to his feet, he placed it into Bill's hands. 'You look after that.' He directed. 'Now we _gotta_ see you on the other side...' He trailed off with a grin. 'How else is Snaf gonna find Jesus? He'll be all sad if ya lose it.' 

Bill grinned. 'Don't say that, I'll bury it in the mud just to piss him off.' 

Despite himself, Shelton let out a hawk of a laugh - his first in days.

'You let anything happen to that Leyden, I'll shove it up where the sun don't fuckin' shine... it's ma sexy book.' He paused. 'Think about y'sister to it.'

'Asshole.' Bill muttered, affectionately.

Eugene smiled, clapping Bill on the shoulder. He leaned in closely and murmured something into Bill's ear. Bill glanced up at him, his expression sullying. Slowly, he nodded. A moment lingered before they grabbed one another in an elongated, tight embrace.

Shelton felt his stomach twitch with a feeling he was not familiar with and he averted his gaze back to his boots. Before he had a chance to comment, Mac's voice cried over the top of the atmosphere.

'MORTARMEN WITH ME.' 

He held back, refusing to move out without Eugene directly at his side.

Despite the differences they had shared the last few weeks, they raised their clenched fists to one another, giving the briefest bumps before beginning to trudge through the dirt. _Their entering battle tradition._ They'd done it every time they'd fallen out since their second stint of Peleliu.

For a moment, he pondered what Eugene would do after he was gone. He shoved the image from his mind, quelling the futile pain that accompanied it.

_What use was feeling to anyone? Where had feeling gotten him?_

_He'd felt for Burgie, look what happened there._

Obediently, they fell out.

* * *

There was nine of them.

Mac. Burgie. Shelton. Eugene. Redifer. Wendell. And a handful of Boots, whose names simply weren't important.

Mac had taken on the command of the Mortarmen during ventures such as this; much to their chagrin. Riflemen were led by Lt. McEnery, Intelligence by Gunny Higgins. Those two were competent; Mac was not. 

He had been reprimanded innumerable times after complaints from his troops for a myriad of depraved acts that not even Shelton would descend to. He would urinate in the mouths of dead Japs, shoot the teeth of dead men and animals, alike. The man was a liability and a pig-headed one at that. 

Due to the clandestine nature of the offensive, they had been directed to remain as elusive as possible. Their route had been outlined on a map that Mac had briefly studied before promptly burning - the way hopefully having been ingrained into the Lieutenant's memory.

As nightfall approached and they passed the same thicket for the third time running it was Burgie who tentatively asked whether Mac would remember the way.

His response was visceral, turning angrily and screaming at Burgie. ' _YES, OF COURSE, I FUCKING CAN!'_

After another hour of roaming, Mac had no option but to order them to settle silently into the thicket for the night - it would be too dark to see their hands in front of their faces, before long, never mind any possible dangers. To continue at night would be suicide.

Yet he assured them, if they kept going north after first light, they would easily reach their location.

Obediently, the nine took cover beneath the trees, quivering at any sound that travelled through the jungle, petrified that it was the signal of a Jap attack.

Mac reported lowly into the radio they carried - explaining through broken waves they had gotten waylaid by the presence of possible casualty risks. The Boots were too green to understand the reasoning for Mac's lie, they would wise up soon enough. Mac looked after number one... always had; always would.

Eugene sat at Shelton's shoulder as they huddled beneath the cover of a heavy coconut tree, surrounded by the darkness of night. Eugene was supposed to take first watch, yet Shelton had no urge to sleep.

'We're too far East for the Japs to anywhere near here.' Eugene murmured, out of nowhere.

'If you say so.' He responded, clutching his smoke tightly between his fingers. He felt Eugene shaking at his shoulder, he glanced at him. 'You OK?' He asked.

Eugene nodded. 'Wish I could get my tobacco out.' He murmured. 'Pipe would calm me down.' 

Shelton huffed as he held his cigarette between his knees, keeping the cherry hidden from view.

'Light up.' He encouraged, with a shrug. ''s'the worst that can happen?'

'We could be trussed up like Jimmy and Keats?' He rebuked and Shelton's expression darkened at the memory, images of Eugene adorned with brutal injuries plaguing his vision.

He licked his lip, staring at his knees. 'Share this with me.' He murmured, pressing the cigarette into Eugene's hand. He accepted it, drawing the smoke into his lungs, before passing it back.

Shelton pressed his gaze to him, surveying him firmly. 'Don't be 'fraid.' He muttered.

Eugene blew the smoke out, nodding.

'Are you?'

Shelton scoffed, shaking his head. 'Am I fuck.' He lied.

'Yeah?' Eugene asked, sceptically, before reaching for his hand. 'That why you're shaking like a leaf?' 

Shelton despised them both in that moment for the way that the act made his chest jump at the feeling of Eugene's hand against his own. The way that he ached for the warmth of Eugene's body beside him. For the images that flashed to his mind or for the urges that took every ounce of his self-control to suppress. Any attempts to quell the affection that arose so fiercely in his chest being _utterly futile._

He cleared his throat to steady his voice. 'It's cold.' He countered pathetically, shutting his eyes against the feeling of electricity as Eugene hesitantly tracked the pad of his thumb against the back of his hand. As though he was unsure whether he was allowed. _He was._

Eugene scoffed, disparagingly. 'You're a shit liar.' He murmured, before pausing. 'I know why you've been such an asshole these last weeks.'

Shelton huffed. 'I'm always an asshole, Gene.' He responding, taking another drag of his cigarette. _This wasn't part of the plan. He was trying to distance himself from Eugene not... this..._

Eugene laughed, lightly. 'Not to me, you ain't.' He stated.

Shelton let his eyes slide back open, pressing his gaze against Eugene's through the darkness. He was so close that he could smell him - tobacco, gun oil and dirt, mixed with familiarity, warmth and something else entirely.

'Maybe you just ain't payin' enough attention.' He suggested, glancing down through the thick darkness at their hands that still sat interlocked. He paused, resting his head against the trunk of the tree they leant again, seeking Eugene's face through the door. 'Ask me again.'

'Are you scared, Shelton?' His voice trembled.

' _As a Hammer of'a Rat_.' He answered, honestly. The vulnerability of the admission making him feel nauseous.

Eugene huffed a breath in response, that he could identify neither as a laugh or anything else. Nor did he want to. 

He licked his lip tentatively, gazing at his face through the dark. 'What did you say to Ball-Peen?' He asked.

'When?' Eugene responded softly, his eyes flicking against varying features of Shelton's face.

'Before we moved out.' He answered, under no illusions that Eugene knew exactly what he was referring to.

Eugene huffed.

'Nothing important.' He murmured, with a shake of his head. His brow furrowed, taking the cigarette back. 'Why ain't you sleepin'?' He asked, with a mouthful of smoke. 'I'll wake you when it's your turn at watch.'

 _I want to keep you safe._ 'Too wired.' Shelton muttered.

Eugene smiled dryly; as though he knew exactly why.

Their hands suddenly dropped, yet before Shelton could react, Eugene arm slung around his shoulders, pulling him snugly against his side. The drying mud on his uniform was cracked and rough against Shelton's exposed neck and cheek but the warm skin beneath was intoxicating. _Fuck, he'd missed this._

'Sleep.' He urged gently, cheek pressing against Shelton's hair. 'Carry on bein' an asshole tomorrow.'

Beneath heavy lids, Shelton found nothing in him that wished to argue.

Not even Snafu.

He awoke with a start the following morning, daybreak inching its way through the trees. He raised his head, noticing with a gut-wrenching twist that Eugene lay beside him, fast asleep. The arm was still around his shoulder, his head resting heavily against his own.

_Shit, Eugene had fallen asleep on watch._

He moved to wake him urgently before Mac noticed, but a voice interjected before he could.

'Calm down, I told him to sleep.'

Shelton started at the noise, glancing up he saw Burgie sat opposite them. His heart rate slowed as he let out a steadying breath.

'Fuck me, didn't recognise you without your head up Luitenant Shit-Fucker's ass.' He responded stiffly, unsure of the reaction the statement would gauge.

Burgie was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, these days.

When he scoffed in response, Shelton's chest fluttered.

'You feel better for sleepin'?' Burgie asked, tentatively. 

Shelton stretched, sliding out from beneath Eugene's arm carefully so as not to wake him. He pressed his sleeping head towards the trunk of the tree, distancing them. The previous night never to be discussed again; as was protocol. 

'Not as much as I do for wakin' up.' He answered, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. He plucked one out with his teeth, before glancing at them and tossing them to Burgie.

An olive branch.

Burgie accepted the token gratefully, pulling one from its packet and passing them back. 'Can I bum a light?' He asked.

Shelton surveyed him, before igniting his cigarette with his pilfered lighter and flinging it towards him.

'You not confiscated enough lighters lately?' He asked, wryly.

Burgie huffed, dryly, lighting his own. 'Clearly not.' He gazed at the lighter in his grasp. 'Who's P. K. Irving?'

Shelton shrugged. 'Some kid.' He responded, catching the object as Burgie threw it back at him.

The response sat heavily in the air. _They were all kids, these days._

He glanced to his left, catching sight of Mac speaking quietly into his radio.

'Does he have any fuckin' idea where we're headin'?' He asked, exasperatedly. 

Burgie nodded, slowly. 'He's spoken with HQ. We been headin' too far west. He's using _my compass_ now, despite me tellin' him all of yesterday his was fucked... Seems we're about eight miles out... we'll be there by nightfall, tomorrow at the latest. Maybe twenty, twenty-five miles... probably closer to thirty.' 

Shelton nodded. 'What time is it?' He asked. 

'Just before five.' He responded. 'We're movin' out at 06:00 ... if you wanna wake him in half an hour that'd be good.' 

He let out a grunt of acknowledgement and Burgie walked away, without another word.

True to his word, Mac did indeed have a better idea of where they were going. However, due to the previous day's sojourn, they were at least ten hours behind schedule.

 _Speed was of the essence_ , he continually reminded them, they needed to keep moving _regardless of distraction_.

Regardless of Redifer's terrible blister, regardless of one of the Boots' need to piss. Shelton was impressed by how well he aimed as he walked, managing to flick his stream in Mac's direction.

They managed the first eight miles back on track without a hiccup. Through the thicket – over fucking boulders, across the undergrowth, crawling through a hidden water tunnel beneath a rickety bridge.

However, the thickness of the jungle with its impenetrable trees made sticking to a straight route impossible. So when they came across a haphazardly made, flimsy bamboo walkway over the ten-foot boggy ravine, Mac jumped at the opportunity to cross it. 

Previous footfall from other infantry had made it fractured, strained - held together by little more than splinters. It was at least seven-foot wide crossing. They’d be fucking _insane_ to even attempt it - yet Mac had time to make up for.

'We'll get right over then we can stop for a rest.' He announced, assertively.

'Sir, is that a good idea?' Burgie interjected, hesitantly. 'It's a foot from cracking!'

Mac bristled at the intervention.

‘Burgin, do you see any other way across?’ He asked.

'Perhaps _any other_ fuckin' way?' Redifer intervened.

'I'd rather jump than cross that.' Shelton agreed.

Mac sighed. ‘It’s had the whole of K Company over – we ain’t special.’

Burgie eyed the makeshift bamboo boards sceptically. They weren't even nailed together, instead trussed up with twine.

'Is this _actually_ the official route?' Eugene interjected, shuffling the mortar on his shoulders. 'I can't see the others going over that!'

Mac opened his mouth angrily to respond, but Burgie's hand suddenly flew out to grab his arm.

'Shut up.' He urged. 

'What did you just...' Mac began but Burgie gesticulated to his ear, emphatically. _LISTEN!_

They fell silent.

All that could be heard was the breezing of the trees and the distant hum of crickets.

Eugene and Shelton glanced at one another, their pulses quickening, hairs prickling against their skin. Burgie was never wrong.

There was no ignoring it when it came again. A single, animalist caw. The unmistakable cry of a Japanese war sound.

'Fuck!' Mac hissed. 'Arm up!'

They did, Eugene dropping the Mortar to his feet and joining the others as they grabbed their rifles, crouching down in the hope of staying hidden. 

Shelton' heart pounded in his chest. He squared himself behind Eugene, glancing to his right to get his eyes on Burgie, in an attempt to cover him too. _He was an asshole but he was still theirs._

'Cross.' Mac urged, gesturing with his rifle. 'Quickly go!' 

No one breathed, the muggy air lying suffocatingly over them, as their skins leaked with fearful perspiration.

Jimmy and Keats filled their minds.

They were being watched; there was no doubting that. No question about it. Yet by how many, they couldn't be sure and from where, they had no idea. 

They had to get across the death bridge now, they had no choice.

Redifer went first, practically running over the boards. Followed by Wendell, the first of the Boots went after. the bridge creaking warningly beneath their footfall. The three of them formed a blockade; their weapons pointed downhill against the thicket. 

Shelton glanced desperately to Eugene, who looked back, a look of wild fear in his eyes.

'We need t'draw the mortar.' Shelton breathed. Mac and Burgie glanced, rifles drawn.

Mac nodded, moving his aim to cover him. 'To Redifer.'

Shelton shouldered his rifle.

'Snaf.' Eugene hissed, desperately. 

Ignoring him, he lifted the mortar to his arms, hurrying to the edge of the ravine. He leant across as Redifer held his hands out on the other side. He rested the weapon against the wooden slat and pushed it, managing to shove it far enough for Redifer to lean over and grab it, Wendell holding onto his pack to steady him. 

'Lock and load.' Mac urged. 'Hold until I say.'

They did as instructed, readying the mortar for the risk of combat. If they were going down; they would go down fighting.

'You next, Shelton.' Mac urged, with a nod of his head.

 _Not before Eugene._ He wanted to say. He was about to counter when suddenly a crack flew through the air, a Boot crumpled at his shoulder and madness descended.

'DOWN! DOWN!' Mac screamed and they fell to the floor.

Shelton launched away from the edge of the swampy bog, scrabbling for his rifle.

The sickening scream of ' _BANZAI'_ erupted through the air and Wendell was sick into the dirt, as they blindly began to fire against the bullets launched at them.

'Hold the mortar!' Mac shrieked over the whizzing of the bullets. 'That will sound for miles!'

Two Japs descended out of nowhere from the high ground, guns held aloft. Their bullets continuing to pepper the air.

An onslaught of cracks screamed through the jungle as both sides fired haphazardly, the lack of cover making it almost impossible to aim. After a few agonisingly long moments and several panicked shrieks, the Nips crumbled and silence descended.

They aimed wildly again, searching for any more enemies creeping through the jungle. The heaviness broken by only their panicked breathing and the most minute whimpers. 

'Everyone OK?' Mac asked, quietly.

Shelton glanced down to the Boot at his feet. A single bullet hole stared back at him from the centre of his forehead, crimson dribbling out of the wound, his eyes staring back unseeingly. 

'Kid's dead.' He responded.

They glanced over. One of his fellow boot laid eyes on what had clearly been his best friend. He cried out, uttering his name desolately, lunging for him. Burgie caught him by the shoulder.

'It's OK. Go over.' He urged, turning him back to the makeshift bridge. 'You've gotta keep movin'. Keep goin'. I'm sorry.' 

The Boot whimpered despondently, again casting one last glance at his friend, but did as he was told.

Mac ripped the Boot's dog tags off his dead body, shoving them deeply into his pocket. 'Sledge - go - go.' He interceded, ushering Eugene on with the nuzzle of his rifle. 

Shelton cast his glance to Eugene, who looked back.

Wordlessly he followed the Boot. 

'It's OK, I'm right behind you.' He urged, pressing his elbow into the base of the Boot's back as he hesitantly eyed the bridge. 'Don't think on it, what's the worst that can happen? Fall in a bit of mud? I'm right here to haul you out.' 

The boot nodded, appeased by Eugene's presence.

He stood only a handful of inches behind him as the Boot tentatively placed his foot over the board and took his first few steps, Eugene followed.

They were so close together that when the explosion of the grenade ripped through the air, it was indistinguishable to tell which one of them had been hit directly from the impact. 

Madness descended again as they were engulfed by the ringing in their ears.

Shelton did not see the final Nip racing through the trees towards them, gun aloft, hand still raised from launching the incendiary.

Shelton did not see Mac's bullet hit him squarely in the chest sending him tumbling to the floor.

Shelton did not see Burgie scramble for him, only felt himself being dragged to the floor, a hand covering his mouth to smother to screams that erupted from his chest. Their presence was supposed to be clandestine, after all.

All Shelton registered was Eugene flying backwards, falling from view beneath the quagmire, as shards of wood and bits of shrapnel and blood exploded in his direction.

His response is primitive, visceral.

One thought existed in his mind - _get to Eugene_.

Dead or alive; get Eugene out of the mud, he doesn't belong in the mud.

His gun dropped to the dirt of its own volition. He scrabbled fiercely against Burgie's grip as Mac shouted orders to Redifer, Wendell and the Boot across the way to head up in the direction the Japs had come from and check the coast was clear.

'GET THE FUCK OFF ME!' He shouted, kicking out at Burgie, he scrambled to his hands and knees, calling out Eugene's name. Burgie was hot on his heels as they both launched themselves off the edge of the ravine and down into its boggy mud below. It was deeper than anticipated, reaching their waists. Not that Shelton gave a shit.

The explosion had decimated the walls of the ravine, dirt and debris from what appeared to be a manmade cladding against its barriers had fragmented, leaving a barrage of dirt above Eugene and the Boot. 

Burgie and Shelton dug through the heavy pile with their bare hands, splinters and shards embedding in their skin as they ploughed on, regardless. It was barely a second until their hands reached the first feelings of skin, moist and bloody to the touch.

Shelton knew from the way it felt that it was not Eugene. Burgie hauled the body out, or parts of it as Shelton dived further into the dirt, clawing for Eugene, calling his name.

He cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder. The second unseeing Boot of the day gazed back at Burgie. His face scorched, skin hanging off, his uniform decimated, his side looking burnt to the flesh.

 _Mercifully,_ Shelton concluded, he looked to have taken the brunt of the blast.

'Fuck.' Mac interjected at the sight of his corpse.

Neither Shelton nor Burgie paid him any heed as they struggled for Eugene. Shelton continuing to wrench at the dirt with his bare hands as Burgie ripped off his pack, yanking his shovel from its holster.

They dug and they dug. 

Half a foot in, Eugene's hand became visible, hanging limply through the dirt and bamboo. His signet ring gleaming out against the debris.

'FUCK!' Burgie yelped, as Shelton virtually mounted the heap. He reached forward, grasping Eugene by his arm and reaching through to grasp at this uniform. 

'Please. Gene. Please. Please.' He begged, the air immediately evaporating from his lungs as his heart stopped. He could barely look. He pulled with every vestige of his might. 'HELP ME!' He screamed at Burgie.

Burgie was suddenly at his shoulder, hands reaching through as they dragged him out of the crumbling pile. 

His eyes were shut and his forehead was bleeding badly as he emerged, his mouth slacked.

The three of them stumbled backwards, landing into the bog beneath the additional weight of Eugene's unresponsive body.

'Eugene?' Shelton cried, urgently, he raised a hand to his dirty face, trying to scrape the mud away. He was covered in cuts and burns from the blast. 'EUGENE!'

'Is he alive?' Mac's voice interjected. 

He raised a hand tentatively to his nose, air flushed back to his lungs when the slightest warmth of his breaths reached his skin.

'He's breathin'!' Shelton answered, tightly. 'He's breathin'!' 

Burgie let out a gasp of relief, whilst a returning Redifer and Wendell let out a whoop of ease, both at Eugene's survival and the lack of remaining Japs in their path. The Boot stared emptily at the body of his remaining friend.

' _Gene?_ ' Shelton cried, desperately, he raised a hand to his cheek, slapping him soundly. A heavy moment passed before he grunted, eyes flickering weakly as he began to splutter against the stomach full of dirt he had inhaled.

Shelton gasped tightly, yanking him over his shoulder, clapping him heavily on the back in the hope the gravity would assist him clearing his airways as he coughed. 

'I got you.' He assured him desperately, his heart pounding desperately a mixture of terror and relief. 'You're OK, I got you.'

'Get him up.' Mac's voice interjected, stiffly. 'Get him out.' 

With a grunt, Burgie pulled himself to his feet as Shelton glanced up. Burgie held his hands out and Shelton allowed him to drag Eugene up as he stood. Together, they struggled to lift him out of the heavy mud upwards to the verge where Redifer and Wendell caught him on the other side. Yet, through sheer adrenaline, they managed to heave him out before hurrying against the dirt to find a wall low enough to climb out.

The bog turned to water not twenty feet along the way. Had they travelled just a short while further along, they would have passed safely and cleanly. They were drenched as they emerged, the mud washed away, yet they gave their own state no heed as they rushed back to Eugene. 

Mac had managed to cross over the heap of dirt by the time they returned, chests heaving from sprinting.

He held Burgie with a terse expression as he jerked his head towards him, together they walked past the cluster of men and spoke quietly between themselves as Shelton returned to Eugene's side.

'He ain't woken up.' Redifer stated, from his position at Eugene's head. 

'His leg, Snaf.' Wendell added and Shelton glanced down. 

Through Eugene's ripped trouser leg, an embedded chunk of bamboo had fractured itself through the skin of his shin.

 _'Fuck.'_ Shelton hissed, closing his eyes. His heart pounded and his chest sank. He wasn't walking on that. 'Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck!'_

He proceeded to empty almost half of his canteen over Eugene's face, scrubbing the dirt off his face. He knew he would struggle from the lack of water later, but he couldn't find it in him to care.

'Redifer. Wendell. Adams.' Mac's voice interjected. 'With me, let's go. Keep moving - we'll wait up the track.' 

Shelton was briefly aware of Burgie joining him by Eugene's leg as the other three loaded up to move out. The movement didn't strike him as odd as it should have done, at first. 

'We've got to get that out of him.' He murmured, reaching to pull Eugene's now sopping hair from his cleaner face. He leant down. 'Gene?' He tried, desperately trying to keep the panic from his voice. 'Sledgehammer, can y'hear me?' 

He glanced up at Burgie, who stared back at him. His expression so harrowing that it made Shelton pause.

'It's fine.' He urged, misunderstanding Burgie's hesitation. He shouldered off his wet pack, scrabbling for his medical kit. 'It's just a snip o'wood - ain't nothin' we never seen.'

'Snaf.' Burgie's voice shook, he sounded desolate. 'Snaf, we... he's...'

Shelton froze, his stomach falling from his body as he interpreted the words that were struggling out of the Sergeant's mouth.

Burgie was far gone.

Shelton recognised that.

Shelton understood that.

But Burgie wasn't as far gone as he would be if he uttered the words that Shelton knew were coming next.

'Don't... even fuckin' say it.' He struggled, barely mustering the words against his sudden urged to vomit. His heart pounded furiously as a mixture of rage, devastation and utter terror filled his veins.

'Snaf, we've got to leave him.'

He didn't expect the words to hurt as much as they did when they eventually tumbled from Burgie's mouth. The statement physically winded Shelton, he recoiled, his back arching.

'He... he can't move out like this... we have... no idea how many... many more... of 'em there are... we've got near thirty miles... it'd be... suicide... for the rest of us... he's... he's gotta be left.' 

A deafening silence fell.

'Left?’ The word felt filthy as it came from Shelton's mouth.

His hands trembled, he couldn't process what he was hearing, who it was coming from. His ears thundered as he braved a look to Burgie, unsure whether he was about to lunge for him or break down at the sheer prospect.

‘Are you _shitting me_?’

'Snaf... the orders are we need... we need to get... need to be at the summit by tonight... we.. we ain't gonna get there with him... we...' He stammered, his sentences not making sense as he tried to rationalise the prospect both to Shelton and himself. 'We can come back for him with more bodies...'

He nodded, desperately as he seemed to settle on the idea.

'It's fine... we'll be back by morning - we'll come back for him!'

'Are you _fucking serious_?' Shelton demanded, glancing from Burgie to Eugene's unconscious face and back again, his voice rising hysterically. ‘Has that promotion turned your brain to mush, _you stupid shit?_ ’

Burgie's breath caught, his own terror evident in his face. 'Snafu - I know it's hard... I don't like it any more than you... but... these are the orders... this is....'

' _THIS IS WHY WE'RE HERE?_!' Shelton offered, his voice reaching screaming pitch as he mimicked Burgie's favourite catch-phrases. 'THIS IS WORTH IT _WHEN YOU LOOK AT THE OVERALL SCHEME OF THINGS_?!' Tears of fury welled in his eyes as he glared up at him. 'WHO THE FUCK _ARE YOU?_!' He demanded, his voice cracking.

Burgie looked down, breath hitching as a single tear ran from his face. Shelton felt violently sick. _Burgie was willing to leave Eugene._

'Look at him.' Shelton hissed, but he shut his eyes in response. ‘Fuckin' _look at him_ , Romus Burgin.’ He repeated, voice like gravel. ‘Look at him and _think_ what ya sayin'’

Burgie barely managed to glance down at Eugene's body between them.

Tears of sheer anguish fell hot and heavy from Shelton's eyes as he cradled Eugene against him. He stared up at Burgie desperately, he couldn't find the air to breathe.

‘Snaf, this is what we’ve been ordered.’ Burgie responded, imploringly. 'We got no choice.'

‘Been fucking _ordered_?’ He laughed, maniacally. ‘You prepared to leave Sledgehammer out here to get fuckin' ass raped by Nips because some cunt in a beret _ordered you to_?’ He paused, Burgie lowering his gaze.

Shelton shook his head, incredulously. 

'HE WILL DIE, BURGIE.' He cried, his voice more erratic than he'd anticipated. 'DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT? - WE AIN'T FUCKIN' COMING BACK! THEY WON'T LET US COME BACK!'

Burgie shook his head, emphatically. 'Mac said....' He began.

'MAC?!' Shelton demanded. 'FUCKIN' MAC?!'

He lunged to his feet, yanking Burgie up by the front of his shirt, shoving his back against a nearby tree.

'WHERE THE _FUCK_ IS MAC NOW?! MAC'S LEFT YA TO DO THIS _BY Y'SELF!_ LEFT YA T'DEAL WI' ME **_BY YOURSELF!_** BECAUSE HE KNOWS I AIN'T LEAVIN' HIM! TAKEN THE OTHERS WITHOUT TELLIN' 'EM! HE'S A _MOTHERFUCKIN' COWARD!_ ' His voice had reached shrieking pitch, as he screamed in Burgie's face.

Burgie stared back aghast, torn between his orders and his friend. He shook in Shelton's grasp. 

'We'll come back.' He repeated, desperately. For he had no other argument.

Shelton dropped him, shoving him forcefully, causing him to tumble back against the tree onto his haunches. He sniffed, clutching at his nose in sheer desolation. Burgie didn't utter a sound in response.

Shelton turned his back to him as he squatted back down in front of Eugene.

He could no longer care for Jimmy or Keats.

'Burgie... this is a _death sentence_.' He uttered, voice dropping to barely a whisper. 'He will fuckin' die of exposure before we'd ever have a chance to make it back...' His voice cracked. 'Or fuckin' be found by _them._.. that worth the risk Burg?' He hissed.

Burgie stayed silent.

'Is it? If we come back or not?' Shelton scoffed. ''Least we can send his body home to his Momma if we do come back.' He huffed. 'Reckon we'll b'able t'tell it's Gene?' He asked, tears blurring his vision as he turned his gaze back to Burgie.

Burgie looked away.

'After he's been fuckin' tortured t'death... or _worse_? What if he ain't here? Be taken to one of their _goddamn camps_?’

Burgie made a strangled grunt in response as he struggled against his growing sobs.

'Ya _know_ what happens in those camps, Burgie! Ya _know_ how they fucking feel 'bout Mortarmen…’ He trailed off desperately as Burgie braved his gaze back towards them. ‘You _know_ what they do to Mortarmen, Burg... Jimmy'n'Keats'll look like _show ponies_ compared t'him.’

Burgie didn’t respond.

‘I don’t give a shit what fucking boy scout badge you wear on that damn shirt, you ain’t followin’ on that order, _Sergeant_.’ He hissed. ‘You understand me boy? You're killin’ ya friend. _Your friend._ '

His voice cracked.

‘You ain't walkin' from this Burgie.' He hissed. 'cos'I'll fucking _stick you_ – I ain't got no qualms 'bout that... walk away now'n I will take my fuckin' KA-BAR and I'll stick ya right here... then we'll see how _you feel_ 'bout bein' left behind.’

Burgie quivered at the threat, knowing without an ounce of doubt that Shelton was not bluffing.

He looked utterly ravaged.

Slowly Shelton climbed to his feet, his legs shook as he stumbled.

Burgie winced, as he approached but didn't back away.

‘This’nt you Burgie…' Shelton implored, desperately. 'Look at him… this ain't a goddamn Boot…. This is _Eugene_ … Burgie, _look at him_. This, Gene.’

Burgie slowly closed his eyes, before heeding him. He gazed down at Eugene, lying broken, bleeding and bruised on the ground.

'Burgie, _please.'_ Shelton gasped. 'He wouldn't leave you n'ya _know it_... he'd be _court-martialled f'you.'_

Burgie bit down onto his lip, tears continued to run from his cheeks.

'You wanna be Ack-Ack?' He asked, tightly. 'What'd Ack-Ack do? Y'think Ack-Ack'd leave him here? Leave 'im to wake up frightened and alone? Leave 'im to wait on the Japs to come find 'im... knowin' we left? That what Ack-Ack'd do?'

Burgie shook his head.

'No.' He hissed.

There was a single beat before he let out a painful cry, suddenly grabbing his helmet from his head, launching it as hard as he could into the ground by his feet. He strode a few steps pacing backwards and forwards as he pondered whether there was an alternative.

'He _can't walk,_ Snaf!' He shrieked. 'He's fuckin' unconscious _he can't walk! HOW WE GONNA MOVE HIM?'_

‘I’ll _fuckin'_ carry him!’ Shelton retorted, climbing to his feet and meeting Burgie in the middle ready for a second wind of fighting.

‘For near _thirty miles?!_ ’ Burgie demanded. 'How the fuck are y'gonna carry him _for thirty miles_?'

'Same way I'd fuckin' carry _you_.' He responded, stiffly. He pointed down to Eugene. 'Same way _he'd fuckin' carry ya...'_ His voice shook tightly. ‘We ain't gotta _choice_. This, _Gene_. I'd carry him a thousand fuckin' miles if I had to!’ He paused. 'Same for you. Same for Ball-Peen, Jay... _fuckin' Redifer...'_ He shoved his finger into Burgie's chest. ' _T_ _hat's what friends do... that's what **good marines do.'**_

Burgie let out a shaking breath. He clenched his eyes shut, before letting out a final grunt of attrition. Finally processing the words coming from Shelton’s mouth.

Slowly, he nodded.

Shelton could have been sick from relief where he stood, a strangled cry falling from his throat as he wiped his eyes.

'We ain't got much time.' Burgie murmured, sniffing as he yanked his medical kit from his pack.

‘Cut his leg.’ He directed, handing the scissors from his kit towards Shelton as he hurriedly washed at the cut on Eugene's forehead with water from his canteen before clearing the wound with rubbing alcohol from his pack. He set a large plaster over the deep gash.

Obediently, Shelton fell to his knees beside Eugene. Deftly, he ran the blades through the ragged fabric of his dungaree, cutting away the material away and exposing his cut leg. A six-inch shard of wood stuck deeply embedded within his shin, with several smaller shards buried deeply beneath it.

Burgie lowered his head before moving down his body, he pulled a face at the sight.

‘Get him drinking, get him awake and _drinking_ – distract him.’ He muttered, pouring water over his hands to clean them. 'If he's awake, it's less of a reason to leave him.'

The statement sickened Shelton, but he did not argue. Desperately, he knelt beside him, pulling Eugene's head into his lap. Relief flooded him that he had remained unconscious throughout his and Burgie's interaction. For the sole reason, that he knew Eugene would have refused to have accompanied them. Preferring to risk his own safety than jeopardise the rest of them. 

He settled with his back to Burgie. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as he turned his attention to the wound. He flushed it with water before sprinkling what Shelton assumed to be a purification powder into the blood in an attempt to sterilise it.

He turned back to Eugene.

‘C'mon, Gene.’ He murmured, tightly, slapping his cheeks sharply. 'Wake the _fuck up_ , Sledgehammer.'

Eugene grunted in response, struggling against the cusp of consciousness. Shelton reached for Burgie's canteen, yanking it from the ground before proceeding to pour a steady stream of water over his face. Eugene cried out lowly, his eyes slowly cracking open.

Shelton huffed a relief gasp. ‘There ya go!’ He guided, grinning down at him assuringly, wiping the water from his face. ‘You good?’ He asked.

Eugene made a cluck in his throat, blinking his eyes around wearily as he processed his surroundings. His confusion was evident and not necessarily a bad thing.

‘You're OK... just keep y'eyes on me, boy.’ Shelton urged, forcing a smile onto his face, baying away any indications of trepidation. ‘You keep your eyes on me...' He stroked his cheek. 'This gonna hurt like a _motherfucker,_ but you keep your eyes on me, _I’m right here._ ’

Eugene frowned up at him, utterly bewildered.

‘Ready?’ Burgie’s voice came.

‘F’r what?’ Eugene mumbled, his voice cracking as his vision steadied.

Shelton ignored him, forcing any sign of fear from his face as he held his head tightly, body blocking his view of his leg.

'Have some water.' He guided, in an attempt to distract him. He held the canteen to Eugene's lips as he drank unsteadily, untrusting eyes stared up at him. Shelton bit into his mouth tightly. 'Trust me, _Pote.'_ He urged, thumb rubbing against his jaw. Guilt ebbed from him at his deception. 'You keep drinkin'... trust me. _Trust Snaf.’_ He paused. ‘Burgie, now.'

With no further prompting, Burgie ripped the bamboo from Eugene’s leg.

Shelton yanked the canteen away suddenly, catching his scream with the palm of his hand, pressing firmly down to mute him.

‘Shh, shh, shh.’ He begged, clutching him tightly. ‘Worst’s over. Worst’s over.’ He dropped his hold over Eugene's mouth as his cries descended to whimpers, his face contorted in agony. ‘Give him a second.’ He urged, glancing over his shoulder at Burgie, who was ready to continue.

He yanked the bloody stick from him.

‘See this?’ He asked and Eugene sank back into him, eyeing the offensive wood in his grasp as tears of pain leaked down his face.

‘Y'got this motherfucker stuck in'ya leg, she a _beaut_.' He wiped Eugene's tears away. 'But we gotta get you moving. ‘K? Gotta patch you up.’

Eugene nodded, screwing his eyes shut.

‘Do it.’ He gasped.

'Good man.' Shelton urged, reaching for his belt blindly, tugging the fabric cord from his waist until it came undone. He folded it, forming a thick bundle of fabric before clamping it between Eugene’s teeth. ‘You bite down on that boy.’ He urged. ‘That’s it.’

Burgie took the move as permission to proceed, shoving two fingers into the gaping wound and as he began to clear out the dirt and debris, continually sluicing it with water.

Eugene’s screams and grunts were muffled against the belt as Shelton held him, tightly. Murmuring assurances, keeping his face pressed against his shirt to prevent him from watching.

‘That’s it, Sledgehammer. _Good boy._ ’ He urged, stiffly, wishing desperately he could take the pain for him. Eugene's tears flowed hot and heavy into his clothes as he scrabbled desperately against him. Shelton caught his flailing hands, guiding them to his arms.

‘Claw down on me.’ He directed. ‘Claw down on me, Gene.’

Eugene shook his head, grappling instead for his hand which Shelton willingly gave. He squeezed against it with a bone-crushing grip.

Shelton wouldn't have given a shit if he'd broken it; anything to alleviate some of his pain. He glanced down, gazing at Eugene's hand against his own. _That fucking hand._

Suddenly, Eugene's grip fell limp against him, his cries falling silent. He tentatively withdrew Eugene's face from his shirt to find him as white as a sheet, eyes sunk shut and mouth slackened as he lay unconscious in his arms.

‘He’s gone.’ He announced, tucking his face back into his chest. ‘Go with it; it'll be better when ya wake up.’ He urged, glancing over his shoulder to see Burgie rinsing down the wound, his hands crimson, four chunks of wood pulled from beneath the skin, he poured more powder over the gash.

He scrambled into the medical bag urgently. 'There's no needle.' Burgie hissed. _'Fuck!'_

'Check mine... I might got' one.' 

'You won't.' Burgie muttered. 'I've got a corpsman bag...' He trailed off. 'That needs stitches.'

‘Why’s it always you, boy?’ Shelton murmured, pulling his belt from Eugene’s slack lips as he cradled him against him. ‘Hmm? Why’s it always you? Y’fuckin liability.’ He glanced towards the laceration in his leg. The wound was an inch wide, blood running from it freely now it was no longer stoppered.

'Pack it.' He directed, reaching for his medical kit regardless. 'Pack it and tie his leg off.'

'These bandages are _filthy_. Burgie countered, picking at the sopping fabric. 'He'll get an infection.'

'He'll bleed out quicker.' Shelton hissed. 'Dress it - bind his leg off and let's get _fucking movin'.'_

Burgie nodded, swilling the cleanest of the bandages with water before pressing them firmly into Eugene's leg. He winced lightly in Shelton's arms, his eyes flickering but not regaining consciousness. Shelton stroked his hair as he watched Burgie pack the wound, he glanced to his left and to his right to ensure that no danger was afoot. It looked to still be clear.

'I need to tie it off with something.' Burgie murmured. 'Unpacked the fuckin' tourniquet at camp... _fuck_...' He sighed. 'Bandages are too weak.'

Shelton muttered beneath his breath, reaching into his bandolier for his KA-BAR, he pulled it taught before placing a nick in his sleeve. He yanked at it several times until the fabric tore way, leaving his arm exposed from his bicep down. 'Use that.' He muttered, tossing his sleeve at Burgie.

Obediently, he sliced at the material, tearing it into strips, before knotting them together, wrapping them tightly around Eugene's thigh. 'That'll do.' He murmured after a moment.

'Right let's go.' Shelton muttered, gently lowering Eugene to the floor before grabbing hold of his pack and shouldering it over his back. He glanced down at Eugene's. 'Strap his to him.' He muttered, reaching to haul Eugene into a sitting position.

'I'll carry it.' Burgie muttered, tersely.

Shelton nodded, raising Eugene's arm and ducking his head beneath his armpit. Squatting, he hurriedly hoisted Eugene over his shoulder into a fireman's lift and struggled to his feet, Burgie lurched forward to brace him.

'You OK?' He asked.

Shelton shrugged him off, jostling Eugene to secure him, his knees almost buckling beneath his weight.

'Fine.' He lied. 

He waited as Burgie donned Eugene's pack, fastening it in and wiping his bloody hands against his trousers.

'Let's move.'

* * *

They found the others five hundred metres up the track.

Anger didn't surmise Mac's response when he saw Shelton hauling Eugene over his back. He and Burgie argued ten feet to the right of the remaining group. It descended into a screaming match, in which Burgie, Shelton, Redifer _and_ Wendell squared up to him, stating under no circumstances were they leaving him behind.

Defeatedly, with a snarl to Shelton. Mac snapped that they had to keep moving, if he couldn't keep up, he would place a bullet into Eugene's head himself.

If he hadn't nearly been collapsing beneath Eugene's weight, Shelton would have punched him.

Their pace was painstaking, his knees threatening to buckle at any moment, but his sheer terror that if he were to drop Eugene that the whole endeavour would be fruitless, proved to be too much of a deterrent to even lower his speed. 

The sun beat down on them. Typically this served to be the only day since arriving on Okinawa that there hadn't been an onslaught of rain. Shelton wasn't sure if that was a positive or a negative - the heat kept Eugene dry, the rain would have made carrying him more bearable.

Eugene awoke several miles into the hike, blearily raising his head from Shelton's shoulder to glance around. Redifer trudged beside them bringing up the rear.

What Shelton would have done without him that day, he had no clue. 

He nearly hugged him when he unclipped Shelton's pack from his back, fixing it against his own, unbuttoning his bandolier and hauling his rifle over his own shoulder, allowing him to solely struggle beneath Eugene's weight. He urged him forward whenever his pace waivered, egging him on like he was Jesse damn Owens. Helped to steady Eugene's weight when he began to stumble. Kept him talking whenever he awoke, holding his attention, lifting his canteen to his mouth and helping him to drink until he slipped into unconsciousness again.

Burgie stayed at the front, proving to be of no assistance, having re-implanted himself firmly up Mac's backside in an effort to appease his refusal of orders. 

Blood was running down Eugene's leg and off his boot when they finally paused for a stop. Shelton was drenched in perspiration, his legs screamed out in agony, utterly exhausted. But none of that mattered to him; all that mattered was Eugene.

'Ten minutes.' Mac stated, warningly. 'Not a second longer.' He cast a glance towards Eugene, clicking his tongue with nondescript emotion - he was yet to ask about his welfare.

Eugene yelled out agonisingly as he was lowered to the floor, a lack of pain relief and blood loss beginning to taking its toll. 

'You gotta try t'eat.' Shelton urged, settling him against a tree stump, shuffling his pack beneath Eugene's outstretched leg to elevate it. 

He slumped to the side in response to Shelton's requested. Redifer joined them, shuffling down to sit at his shoulder to keep him upright. 

Shelton reached for his face, lifting his head up from where it hung against his chest. 'Look at me, Gene.' He murmured. 'Look at me.' 

Slowly Eugene struggled to raise his gaze, his eyes were frantic, his breathing erratic.

'Where'bts on P'vuvu 're'we...' He muttered desperately, stumbling over his words.

'Pavuvu?' Redifer frowned. 

A growing pang of concern welled in Shelton's chest, his palms moistened and his mouth dried.

'We ain't on Pavuvu, are we, Gene?' He responded, holding his gaze firmly. 'Where are we, Sledgehammer?' He patted Eugene's cheek urgingly. 'Take a breath... think... where are we?'

Eugene frowned, his eyes sinking shut, he licked his lips. 

' _Eugene._ ' Shelton repeated, firmly. 'Look at me.' 

Obediently, he reopened his eyes, letting out a huff of attrition at the sharpness of Shelton's voice.

'Okinawa.' He countered, finally. 'We're... _Okinawa_... The mountains... goin'... to the mountains.'

Shelton smiled, relief inching through him. 'Yeah.' He affirmed. 'That's right.'

'Gotta... _find Ack-Ack_.' He added, firmly. He stared up at Shelton desperately. 'We'll... find Ack-Ack... won't we, Snaf?'

Shelton's ease ebbed away as quickly as it had arisen, he glanced at Redifer, giving Eugene an encouraging smile before turning over his shoulder.

'Burgie!' He called, gesturing towards them when the Sergeant glanced over from his place by the sole surviving Boot, who looked utterly traumatised. Burgie rose to his feet, patting him on the shoulder before joining them.

'He's a nutjob.' Redifer stated, eloquently. 'Thinks Ack-Ack's in the mountains.'

Despite his basic instincts to the contrary, Shelton allowed Burgie to take his place in front of Eugene. He utilised his first aid training, gazing into Eugene's eyes, getting him to grip onto his hands, feeling his increasingly clammy skin, touching at the darkening dressing on his forehead, surveying the blood that ran from his leg.

'What's wrong with him?' Shelton asked tentatively. 

Burgie ran a hand through his stubble. 'Head injury... I think, the bang... given him a concussion... he won't know his ass from his elbow.' He surmised. 'Mix the bloodloss and he's got _a lot_ of blood loss.' He paused. 'Get him drinking, replace fluids, eatin'... best thing we can do for him is _get him to a Corpsman as soon as we can_.'

'What about his leg?' He added.

Burgie glanced down, readjusting the knotted fabric around Eugene's thigh. 'It's as tight as I want to wrap it without cuttin' off his circulation.' He paused. 'I'll give him some morphine.' He muttered. 'Knock him out a bit... if he goes into shock... it'll...' He trailed off, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. 'Make it easier on him.'

He administered the vial into Eugene's mouth, pressing his jaw shut when he baulked at the taste.

The action caused a jig in Shelton's memory, dragging him back to their fetid tent on Pavuvu, the air thick with infection and fluids. Eugene holding him assuringly, stroking his hair and murmuring to him as he struggled against medication and putrid food.

He remembered how alone and frightened he'd felt, how vulnerable - Eugene had been the only one to make any difference.

Shelton watched as Eugene's gaze began to go hazy as the effects of the morphine took hold. He reached for him, pulling him against him, pressing face into the refuge of his shirt as he wrapped an arm around him.

'S'OK.' He murmured, assuringly. 'Go with it. I'm right here.' Obediently, he felt Eugene slacken in his grip as the pain relief knocked him back out. He raised his gaze to Burgie, his jaw clenched. 

'We need to get him a Corpsman.' Burgie repeated.

Shelton huffed a breath.

'Still think he'd've been fine waitin'?' He asked, stingingly. 

'Seargent!' Mac's voice interjected and Burgie jumped to his feet obediently without having chance to reply.

'Run along, now.' He hissed, disparagingly, rubbing his hand along Eugene's arm. 'Daddy's a'callin'.'

Burgie cast a glance over his shoulder, yet said nothing, scuttling to Mac's side, instead.

'What's that about?' Redifer interjected hesitantly. 

Shelton opened his mouth to relay the entire story, yet for some reason, he couldn't get the words out. To repeat Burgie's reluctance to bring Eugene would be to acknowledge it, to make the event public knowledge. That hurt too much.

Instead, he tittered dryly. 'Wouldn't believe me if I told you.' He muttered.

Their ten minutes were over as quickly as they started. Shelton barely had time to shovel a few mouthfuls of food in and take a few desperate swigs of water, wetting his forehead in a bid to cool down before he loaded Eugene's unconscious body back onto his back.

He managed ten full miles, almost bent double when his legs finally gave way. He stumbled to his knees in the mud, letting out a cry of anguish with himself. He tried to struggle back to his feet, panic rising in his chest when he couldn't. He was almost hysterical, angrily chastising his own fragility when Burgie suddenly appeared at his side.

He unclipped his and Eugene's seabags that he had been carrying, dropping them to the trail.

'Let me.' He urged, reaching for Eugene's shoulder.

' _I'll do it.'_ Shelton hissed, stiffly. 'I can do it.'

'Just...' Burgie trailed off. 'Just a couple of miles.'

Shelton acquiesced, allowing Burgie to load Eugene onto his own back, before shouldering the abandoned packs and continuing on their march.

He stewed as he watched Eugene's head loll against Burgie's back; yet the relief his body felt without the dead weight was immeasurable. He felt sickened watching Burgie carry him - like he deserved to; like he had _any right to._ He was ashamed of himself, of his weakness. He felt as though he was letting Eugene down. 

Mostly, he felt disgusted at the realisation he couldn't have managed alone; as though it were a betrayal to Eugene. When he had been ill, Eugene had managed alone. He was a failure in comparison.

As he brooded, Burgie felt the need to fill the silence, chunnering away as though their issues were resolved, as though their interaction by the ravine had never happened.

He tried to rise above it; acutely aware of the fact Eugene was half awake for the most part and able to hear their conversations. Shelton succeeded in holding his tongue all the way through, right up until Burgie tried to assure him that he had smoothed over the cracks with Mac.

'Why do you think I could give a _shit?'_ He asked, incredulously.

Burgie merely shrugged in response. 'Just thought...' He trailed off.

'Think a'fuckin'gain.' He responded.

'Think... 'bout what?' Eugene mumbled, against Burgie's back.

'Think about offerin' to carry your fat ass.' Shelton interjected easily, slapping his cheek jovially. 'You weigh a fuckin' tonne boy - all that Jesus in ya!'

They descended into silence, for which all parties were grateful.

Shelton was almost as grateful for the silence as he was when his turn to carry Eugene arrived. He lugged him onto his shoulders, safely back where he belonged. 

* * *

The driving rain had returned with a vengeance when Mac announced they were stopping for the night at an abandoned Marine watchpoint. The spot was safely away from the Japanese lines and a welcomed break to most of the group, having trudged over twenty-five miles since that morning. However, despite Shelton's utter exhaustion, he let out a voice of objection.

'He needs a Corpsman.' He protested, vehemently.

Mac sucked his teeth. 'You wanna keep walking in the dark, Shelton. Be my guest.' He hissed. 'But I would strongly advise you to take a foxhole and wait the night out.' 

With a sigh of surrender, he heeded Mac's advice, settling himself and Eugene into one of the recently abandoned foxholes that had been left by a previous platoon.

He resolved if he ever met the architect of the dugout they occupied he would buy him a drink, for the drainage system was impeccable, leaving them sat in fewer than ten inches of sopping mud. By Okinawan standards, it was as dry as the Sahara.

He shoved Eugene's pack beneath his leg, lifting the injured limb safely from the mud, before pulling his slicker over his head in an attempt to protect him from the rain. When it fell short of his bleeding shin by a good ten inches, he sacrificed his own, tucking the poncho tightly around his cut. He braved the rain solely in his uniform.

Redifer and Wendell joined them briefly, keeping Shelton company as Eugene flitted between a state of confusion and delirious agitation. _He wasn’t well._

Despite the humid temperature, he was ice cold to the touch. Whimpering and murmuring lowly as his head lolled back, blood continuing to leak from his gashed leg.

'That's been bleeding for near eight hours.' Wendell muttered, gesturing through the growing darkness to his leg. 

'It's gonna bleed all night as well.' Redifer interjected. 'I had an Uncle who died from bleedin' that long.'

Shelton gritted his teeth in his direction. Redifer, still traumatised from their rat incident, had the foresight to lower his gaze. 

'He's fine.' He responded stiffly, casting a glance to Eugene's greying skin, moistened from beads of sweat. 

A short while after, Mac called for Redifer and Wendell to babysit the Boot who was rocking alone, a foxhole over, having utterly and completely snapped from the trauma of the day.

With that, they were left alone. Shelton preferred it that way; just the two of them.

'He's gonna look like a real asshole.' He murmured to Eugene as he helped him eat the remnants of his K-Ration. Burgie had been right, the food steadied him. 'He comin' back with half the bodies he set out with, a ravin' boot and a crippled Mortarman.' 

Eugene scoffed, exhaustedly, resting the back of his head against Shelton's shoulder. He had positioned him safely between his legs, as he did his best to protect him from most of the mud and trench water that surrounded them. 

'How you feelin'?' He asked, tentatively, wiping his own dripping curls from his face.

‘I’m... cold.’ Eugene confessed, shuddering despondently against his slicker.

Shelton settled closer towards him, unbuttoning his utility jacket and pulling him firmly back against his chest. He pulled his slicker further up Eugene's leg, being careful to keep him covered against the rain. He shuddered as a particularly sloppy onslaught of mud slipped down his barely clothed back, drenching him with ice-cold, sopping dirt. Yet he gave no inclination to Eugene that he was struggling.

'Yeah?' Shelton asked, raising a hand to Eugene's forehead. Despite the balmy night, he was ice cold to the touch. ‘We’ll warm you up.’ He murmured, rubbing his hand up and down Eugene’s shoulders. ‘We’ll warm you up.’

'I feel... so sick.' Eugene added. 

He nodded helplessly, in response. Shelton listened carefully to his shallow, erratic breathing. His own pulse quickening as he grew more alarmed.

He had hoped that Eugene settling for the night would have alleviated his symptoms, somewhat. Whilst his confusion had lessened, his temperature was dropping at a startling rate, from what he could only assume to be as a result of his blood loss.

‘BURGIE!’ He called over the top of the foxhole, knowing the loud noise would bring him running. 'BURGIE, HE NEEDS YA!'

Not ten seconds passed before Burgie’s drenched face appeared, gazing down at them. 'Keep your fuckin' voice down!' He responded. 'He OK?' 

‘Get the fuck in here.’ He hissed. ‘He needs y'heat... temperature’s droppin’ like th'clappers.’

With a thud, Burgie settled beside them, pressing closely against them to share his body heat.

Shelton glanced at him over the top of Eugene's hair, he shook his head solemnly. _He's in a fucking mess._

'How you feelin', Gene?' Burgie asked, tentatively.

'Sick.' Eugene responded. 'Cold.' He huffed a laugh to himself. 'Suicidal _._ ' 

Burgie smiled despite himself and Shelton huffed a dry laugh.

'You're drippin'.' Burgie interjected, removing his helmet and placing it on Eugene's head, his having been lost in the bog and Shelton's having been misplaced by Redifer somewhere along the track. 'That should keep some of the rain off ya.'

'Th'nks.' He mumbled. 

'D'you remember what happened to ya, Gene?' He asked.

Eugene sucked his teeth. 'Sure.' He responded, before shutting his eyes, offering no further answer.

'No, _Eug_ _ene_.' Burgie rapped on the top of his helmet, the movement jarring him to awaken abruptly. 

Shelton brow twitched and he glared at him, the act far too rough for his liking.

'What happened to you Eugene?' Burgie repeated. 'Tell me.'

Eugene paused. 'Nips.' He answered, after a moment. 'F'ckin' Nips. Fuck Nips... Fuckin'... _bitches.'_

If the air hadn't been stuck in Shelton's chest, he would have laughed.

'Naw.' He responded, leaning down towards him, he wiped the water from Eugene's face with the grubby cuff of his remaining sleeve. ' _How'd_ ya hurt yourself?' He pressed. 'That's what he wants... how'd ya cut ya leg?'

Eugene paused. 'I can't remember.' He stated, honestly. 'It's... foggy.'

'You fell, do you remember that?' Burgie asked. 'A Jap grenade hit the ravine and you and May, the Boot, y'got hit... do you remember that?'

Slowly, Eugene nodded.

'I think so.' He responded, after a moment. 'Is he dead?'

'As a dodo.' Shelton offered.

'Oh, dear.' Eugene answered, his head lolling back against his shoulder. He licked his lips. 'Never mind... _more where he came from._ '

Shelton and Burgie glanced at one another. _That wasn't Eugene._

'You eaten, Gene?' Burgie asked.

'He ate a few crackers, a few spoonfuls of that cheese shit in the K.' Shelton responded.

He nodded. 'Has he pissed?' He asked.

Shelton shook his head. 'No... not that I've noticed.'

Burgie nodded again.

Shelton huffed, irritably.

'Stop noddin' like a fuckin' bobblehead!' He admonished. 'What's wrong wi' him?'

Burgie sighed, frustratedly.

'What d'ya want me to say, Snaf?' He asked. 'He's been hit in the backlash of a grenade, fallen ten foot into a ravine, been buried beneath a dirt heap, hit his head badly, had shards of probably bacteria-ridden bamboo impale themselves in his leg, had said chunks ripped out, had the wound treated with dirty hands, packed with dirty bandages, not had any medical care, had virtually no pain relief, has been hauled on our backs for thirty miles in 90 degree heat, not stopped for a rest, barely drunk, barely eaten all the while his leg and head are pissin' with blood... shall I carry on?'

'Yeah, you missed the part he was almost abandoned by his platoon.' Shelton interjected, lowly. 'I didn't ask what's fuckin' _happened_ to him, I'm asking _what can we do to help him_.'

Burgie shook his head. 'At this point? Little.' He surmised. 'Get him proper treatment and he _should be fine..._ he's just in for a long night.'

Shelton blinked, his brow twitching. 'Should be?' 

Burgie nodded, stiffly. 'Just... just keep him awake... as long as we can... keep him talkin'. Keepin' him alert... _active..._ it'll keep his mind...' He shrugged. 'I dunno... concussion is always dealt with by a Corpsman... blood loss... we're told _stop the bleedin'..._ my trainin' doesn't go this far.'

Shelton shook his head, shutting his eyes briefly.

'This ain't fuckin' happenin'.' He breathed, with a huff of a disbelieving laugh. 'A year o' _fuckin' war_ 'n' he's like _this_ over a piece o'fuckin' wood.'

'Keep him talkin'.' Burgie repeated. 

He nodded, before lowering his head back down to Eugene.

‘Hey - right you gonna wake up proper now?' Shelton asked, reaching for his cheek to get him to look up. 'Eyes open, keep 'em on us.'

Eugene obliged, cracking his eyes open to settle on them.

'You gonna keep talking to us, Gene?’ Burgie interjected.

'Course 'e is.' Shelton agreed, with a suck of his teeth. ‘Witters on ‘nough normally so now’s his time to shine… we all ears.’

Eugene smiled. ‘J… Jesus.’ He responded, lightly, his teeth chattering as he spoke. ‘All it takes is me… me at death's door for you finally to… be… enraptured… by me.’

Burgie huffed a laugh. ‘Hell, Sledgehammer, we're just humouring you.’ He rebuked. 

‘Tell us…’ Shelton’s voice wavered, slightly. ‘Tell us 'bout home… we been together for so long and we don’t know nothing ‘bout ya home.’

‘Ain’t much to tell.’ Eugene answered, shivering.

‘You've got a dog.’ Burgie stated, leaning in close so he could hear his quiet voice.

'Yeah.’ Eugene answered, with a distant smile.

‘Tell us what he like.’ Shelton pressed. ‘Where’d’ya get him? When?'

‘My… my Father treated a veteran… for… fatigue and… his dog… had pups.’ His breath caught, with exertion. ‘We went to pick him… I was about ten I think… it was Summer... _hot._ Hell... 's'always hot in Alabama.’

‘He yours?’ Burgie interjected. ‘Dogs always pick one of ya. He pick you?’

Eugene huffed a laugh. He nodded. ‘To… to my b… brother’s chagrin.’

‘What’s he like?’ Shelton asked. ‘You close?’

'The dog or my brother?' He countered.

Shelton laughed. 'Y'brother... Edward?' 

'Eddie.' Eugene corrected, firmly. 'Edward's... Edward's...' He trailed off, his eyes sinking closed once again.

Shelton jostled him lightly, bringing his attention back.

'...our Father...' He continued, as though not noticing he had even stopped talking. 'He ain't nothing like our Father.' 

'Yeah? What is he like?' Burgie pressed.

‘He’s a... _fuckin’ asshole_.’ He surmised eloquently and Burgie and Shelton let out a laugh. 'Real _dick_.' 

He fell silent once again, Shelton was ready for another question before he continued.

‘B… but h… he’s always looked… out for me, y'know?’ He laughed, miserably. 'He was furious when… he found out I’d signed up… 'specially for the Marines... tried to get furlough… to come home… and kick my ass.’

‘Smart man.’ Burgie responded.

'Wanted me... to join the Navy.' Eugene continued.

Shelton huffed. 'Naw, you ain't pansy 'nough t'be a swabbie.' He countered. 

‘Who's he with?’ Burgie asked.

‘He went to OSC… 2nd Luitenant… Tanks…’

Shelton chuckled, wiping water from his eyes, pushing his curls back again, the rain driving down against him. ‘Jesus, Burgie. _We in the presence o'royalty_. Prince Eugene - brother of King Eddie, _Ironside Extraordinaire_.’

Eugene laughed. ‘He came home on leave and wouldn’t take… take his damn uniform off… all damn… all damn trip.’

‘Classic Louie.’ Burgie murmured.

‘Their war's... over...’ Eugene stated, distantly. ‘He’ll… he’ll be home by summer... Mother says... Hitler's... gonna... surrender... any day.’

‘You'll be home soon, too.’ Shelton urged. ‘We’ll all be out o'this shithole soon.’

Eugene laughed. ‘No... we won’t.’ He answered, despairingly. ‘You… you said it…’ He paused, catching his breath. ‘ _Ain’t nobody goin’ home_... _we're all_ _corpses_...’

A heavy thud fell of guilt fell into Shelton's chest. He was plagued with the desolate look on Eugene's face after he'd turned down his offer of reading. He'd wanted to hurt him and clearly he'd succeeded.

‘Yeah…’ Shelton sucked his teeth. ‘What the fuck do I know?’ He asked. ‘ _Situation Normal All Fucked Up_ … I ain’t got a damn brain in my head.’ He wrapped his arms around him tightly. ‘You ain’t ever listened to me before, why’d you start now?’

Eugene huffed, a smile at his lips. ‘I listen to you, every day.’ He answered, softly. 

The statement slammed into Shelton's gut. He shut his eyes tightly against the tears threatening to spill from beneath them. He placed his lips against Eugene’s ear to ensure he was listening.

‘Then listen to me, _now._ ’ He hissed. ‘We've hauled y'ass for near thirty miles, would'a left ya to rot if you were gonna die... saved our damn legs... You _are_ going home, y’hear?’

‘I want my Dad.’ Eugene responded, after a moment. 'Don't wanna be here, anymore. I wanna go home.'

Burgie looked away, tears in his eyes. He clenched his jaw tightly.

‘Listen to me.’ Shelton begged, pressing his cheek to Eugene’s, hands clutching him tightly. ‘Only tonight.’ He urged, desperately. ‘We’re gonna get y'back t'camp, get y'dry, get y'some hot chow, get a doc to have a look at ya - clean clothes, a bunk... _the works..._ it'll be better'n the goddamn Four Seasons.’ He paused. ‘But you’ve gotta stay with me... just for tonight, Sledgehammer. OK?’

Eugene nodded, miserably.

‘Just keep talkin’ to me.’ He continued. 'Can you do that for me, Gene?'

He nodded, again. 

'That's my boy.' He praised, nodding again Eugene's skin. He rubbed his shoulders to try and warm him. 'You stay wi'me... stay with Snaf.'

‘BURGIN!’ A shout cried from over the foxhole. Burgie clambered to his feet.

Eugene’s eyes shot up. ‘Where’s he goin’?’

‘I’ll be right back.’ Burgie answered, pressing a hand to his Slickered shoulder. Suddenly he paused, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a tube of Morphine. ‘Have this.' He urged, pressing the medication into Shelton's hand. 'Not much left but it'll help a bit... just take that edge off... and I'll be right back... I just need to see what Mac wants.’

Shelton glared at him. _You better be._

He pressed the medication into Eugene's mouth, tossing the spent tube to the dirt beside him as Eugene gasped it down. He handed him his canteen to wash away the acrid taste, watching silently his hand trembled, as he struggled to lift his arm to his mouth. 

Shelton had never much been one for small talk.

Sure, he could talk until the small hours, but the listening? That bored him.

Yet with Eugene that night, he would have listened for days if it kept him awake. Moreover, it made him realise how little he truly knew about Eugene outside of combat, he was desperate for any shred of information. 

The Morphine left him disorientated, through his growing chills and his battling drowsiness, he'd grew increasingly loose-lipped - Shelton thrived on the level of detail offered.

He'd been two grades behind in school because he'd been such a sickly child. He'd met Sid when they were seven and five, respectively. He'd felt in his brother's shadow his whole life failing to be the son that his parents wanted him to be.

Edward had shirked any expectation placed upon him without a sweat, he struggled with the guilt of letting them down. He was jealous of Edward in that respect, he did what he wanted when he wanted, regardless of the consequences.

He missed Edward, desperately. Despite their differences, Edward was his best friend. He was funny and could do excellent impressions of whoever his audience wanted. He wasn't afraid of anything, most certainly not their parents. 

He smoked like a chimney and could drink any competitor under the table. _He would get on very well with Shelton._ He'd been sweet on a nice girl Martha Thompson since senior year. According to his Mother, they had been writing one another for the duration of the war; she'd even come round to dinner at his parents' house. 

He'd always had a turbulent relationship with his Mother. She was overbearing and stoic, and she'd never seemed to like him very much. His Father had always been firm, strict, but he was a good man.

Neither of his parents had ever been demonstrative - they'd never told him they loved him. His Mother forced a hug on him approximately three times a year, always in front of an audience of some kind. His Father's firm handshake covered a range of emotions. The dog was affectionate, though.

He liked to hunt. He liked science - especially the experiments. He didn't like English so much, he was naturally left-handed yet had been forced to use his right at school - the act of writing was a chore to him. But he loved to _write_ he could type reams and reams of words on his typewriter. He adored reading; always had - his favourite book was _A Brave New World._

He gave a detailed description of the plotline and Shelton had to admit it sounded like a hell of a read.

He liked his home but didn't like Alabama traditions so much. He never got the bus because watching elderly negroes give up their seats for grown men made him uncomfortable. He'd tried to raise the topic with his Father once, _a good man, a fair man_ \- but he'd been promptly shut him down. He had never seen a point raising it again.

They had had black help his entire life - Tee and Annie were like second parents to him. He viewed them as equals, he didn't understand why others didn't. He did love Southern food though; he'd eat Barbecue every day if he could.

His parents wanted him to be a doctor. He didn't know what he wanted to be but he certainly didn't want to be a doctor, perhaps he'd compromise as a pharmacist.

He had a close group of friends before the war - five boys who had been friends since middle school, including he and Sid. Johnny had died in the D-Day landings according to his Mother, Peter was reported missing in action shortly before he'd left for the Pacific. He didn't know if anything had happened to Bobby. He hoped not.

He'd fallen quiet after that and Shelton jostled him lightly off his lap, stretching out his dead legs.

Eyeing the watch on Eugene's wrist, he noted two hours had passed since Burgie's departure. He doubted he was coming back.

‘Gene?’ He pressed.

Eugene jumped, shifting his eyes back to him.

 _Shelton would go to hell for this, he was sure._ But his confusion had made him loose-lipped and mailable and his intrigue was crippling him. 

‘You got anyone you sweet on back home?’ He asked, casually. 'Girl? You've never talked 'bout anyone.'

Eugene huffed a laugh. ‘No.’ He answered, shaking his head. ‘Too fuckin’ busy goin' red whenever I look at one of 'em for that game.’

Shelton nodded, acquiescing, unsure of whether the answer was what he was looking for or not.

'You ever... met...' Eugene began, a thoughtfulness to his voice, but he trailed off mid-sentence.

'Met who?' He pressed, nose against Eugene's hair.

'Met a queer?' He concluded abruptly, after a moment. 

Shelton's stomach twitched, he didn't know what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't that. His pulse quicked and he tried to keep his voice even.

'Why?' He asked, hesitantly. 

'I ain't ever met a queer.' Eugene continued, absently.

Shelton smiled wryly to himself. 'Sure y'have.' He responded. 'A Couyon like you just ain't ever noticed.'

'You think?' Eugene asked. 

Shelton smiled. 'I'd put money on it.' He breathed.

'What're they like?' He pressed. 'They weird? Creepy? Bad people?'

Shelton smirked.

'Normal.' He responded. 'Completely normal... you ain't even able to tell 'less y'know what t'look for.'

Eugene nodded. ‘What about you?’ He asked.

Shelton's heart clammed in his chest, his breathing stilled.

'What 'bout me?' He asked, tentatively.

'You... you got a girl?'

He huffed a laugh, the air returning to his body. He shook his head. ‘Naw - too much hard work.’ He answered. ‘Fais Do-Do's one thing… goin’ steady? … hell, that shit ain’t my game.’

He noticed Eugene frown.

‘The... _fuck_ is... a Fais Do-Do?’ He asked, his face contorting with confusion.

Shelton smirked. ‘A Fais Do-Do is dancing. A party...' He grinned. 'What? They don’t have cotillions in Mobile?’

Eugene snorted. ‘You don’t _fuckin’_ dance.’ He objected.

He laughed. ‘There’s a boot you don’t know 'bout me, Sledgehammer.’ He responded, lightly.

Eugene huffed, amused by a joke didn't wish to share. ‘No there ain’t.’ He whispered.

Shelton shut his eyes, a tightness in his chest as a diatribe of words sat on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them down, before wrapping his arms over Eugene’s middle, embracing him tightly, keeping his face pressed to the side of his neck.

'You ain't got no idea.' He breathed.

Eugene had fallen into a state of delirium sometime before 01:00. He shuddered desperately, getting confused as to where he was, utterly exhausted from his attempts to stay awake so long, wincing from the pain in his leg. 

'Could I... die from this?' He struggled, his breathing shallow, his skin ice-cold, yet dripping with sweat.

Shelton breathed a sigh.

'I wouldn't think so, Gene.' He answered - _it wasn't exactly a lie._

'You're a terrible liar.' He murmured.

Shelton huffed a laugh. 'If you say so.' He muttered. 

Eugene fell silent again. 'You... asked what... I said to Bill...' He stated, after a moment.

'Yeah?' Shelton asked. _Like his jealousy mattered at all, anymore._

'I... I asked him to send my bible to my parents... if... if anything happened...' He trailed off. 'It's important to me... I'm... glad it'll... be safe... I felt... I felt like somethin'd happen... think I _knew..._ somethin'd happen.'

'Ain't nothin' gonna happen.' Shelton retorted, sharply. 'Shake that shit from your head.' 

Eugene shuffled awkwardly, messing with his hands.

He frowned, watching him over his shoulder. 'What y'doin'?' He murmured.

He sank back, stilling his movements as he pressed something firm into Shelton's hand. 

It took Shelton a moment to realise what had been placed into his palm with a sickening feeling. Eugene's signet ring.

'What the fuck y'givin' me this for?' He asked, stiffly.

Eugene didn't answer, his head lolling forward. 

'Eugene, why are you givin' me this?' He asked, sharply. 'What... you want me to send this to your folks?'

Eugene huffed a small laugh.

'No.' He murmured. 'If... anything... happens... I want you... to have it... cos...' He trailed off. 'Cos you're... y'know...' Slowly he closed his eyes. '... you're you.'

'Such a fuckin' fat-head.' He muttered, tightly, something trapped against his throat. 'Ya, _fairy_.' 

Eugene laughed again. 'If you say so.' 

* * *

Shelton was sat humming a french lullaby lowly in between drags of his cigarette when Burgie returned, his back still propped up against the wall of their foxhole. 

The rain had eased off around 03:00 and his uniform was steaming in the morning heat. Eugene lay curled across him, leaning heavily against his chest, head resting against the crook of his shoulder, face slackened as he slept.

‘How is he?’ Burgie asked, settling back in beside them.

‘When are we moving out?’ Shelton asked, ignoring the question. He glanced towards Eugene's watch through the remaining shreds of darkness against daybreak - 04:45.

’07:00.’ Burgie responded, lighting a cigarette. ‘You slept?’

Shelton shook his head. ‘No.’ He stated. 'Why we waitin' so late?' He pressed. 'We moved out at 06:00 yesterday.'

'Fuck me, has it only been a day?' Burgie remarked, ignoring the question, with a light laugh. Shelton did not return it. ‘You’re piss-wet through.' He added, observantly.

‘Tried to keep him dry.’ He stated, sucking his teeth. ‘'s'why he's in my fuckin' lap... middle of the hole was floodin'... this's the driest patch... The last thing he need's gettin' dirtier.’

There was a silence.

‘It’s still bleeding.’ Burgie remarked.

Shelton's irritation overflowed before he could stop it. ‘I fuckin' _know_ it’s still bleeding.’ He hissed. ‘We’re fuckin’ _wearin' it_.’

Silence descended, awkwardly. Eugene twitched slightly, brow contorting. Shelton wrapped his arms around him tightly, pressing his cheek against his head and shushing him. He pressed muddy fingers to Eugene's temple.

‘He’s fucking freezing.’ He hissed, tightly. ‘Can we get a fire going?’

Burgie shook his head. ‘They’ll see the smoke.’

Shelton rolled his eyes. Who _they_ were he was unsure. They were about fifteen miles North of any Jap.

‘Been holding fuckin' smokes near his skin all night.’ He murmured, absently. ‘Doin' anythin’ to try'n warm 'im up.’ There was a pause. ‘Y'said you were comin' back.’

‘I got held up.’ Burgie responded, apologetically. ‘That Boot been cryin' all night, Mac was terrified he'd start screamin'.’

_Terrified of who?!_

‘You never thought to send anyone over?’ Shelton asked, smoking to contain his anger.

Burgie laughed. ‘You’d be willin’ to sit in a hole with Redifer or Wendell all night?’

‘I was willin’ to sit with you.’ He responded, smartly. 

Burgie glanced away, clearly stung. 

‘Snaf…’ He began, but he Shelton shook his head.

‘Just sit next to him and _shut up_.’ He whispered, tightly.

He did.

An hour or more passed before Eugene stirred again.

He murmured urgently in his sleep, his brow contorting, sallow skin tacky beneath the morning heat. His eyes sprang open sharply, frantic in the early light. _He looked_ _fucking awful._

Shelton ran fingers through his hair, having removed his helmet once the rain stopped. He pulled his head back to settle it beneath his chin, securely.

‘It’s OK.’ He assured him. ‘We movin’ out soon. Go back to sleep... Ain’t gonna leave you.’

Slowly Eugene's eyes sank shut again as he slipped back to sleep. Shelton continued to smoke, absently continuing to run his fingers through the gritty strands of Eugene's hair. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Burgie take a few glances towards them before lowering his gaze back to his cigarette.

‘You need to be careful.’ He stated, after a moment.

‘About _what?'_ Shelton responded, irritably.

‘Don’t be cute.’ Burgie hissed. ‘People _talk._ ’

‘What the fuck _about_?’ Shelton rebuked, exasperatedly, in no mood for a guessing game.

Though he had a sneaking suspicion to exactly what it was that Burgie was referring to. 

Burgie sucked his cheeks. ‘You two're close that's fine... but...’ He trailed off. 'They been _talkin_ ’ since the whole Malaria business... if it ain't foxholes - it's tents, it's him playin' nursemaid, you two playin' fuckin' schools... now it'll be you fuckin'...’ He gestured at them.

Shelton scoffed, shaking his head. 'So... me near damn dyin' of Malaria and me stoppin' you leavin' him for dead in the middle o'the fuckin' jungle makes you think we’re queer?’ He asked, stiffly. 'From what I remember, it were you washin' my shit-stained drawers and stealin' supplies all across the camp for me... so does that make you queer too?'

‘I didn’t say that.’ Burgie rebuked. ‘I just said… people _talk_.’

‘Well Burg, next time y'hear ‘em _talkin’_ you tell ‘em if they want ma dick up their ass so bad all's they gotta do's ask.’ He muttered, facetiously. 

‘Don’t be a prick.’ He admonished.

Shelton scoffed. ‘You been enough of a prick these last few weeks to last us all the rest of this damn war.’

Burgie hung his head low. 

'Y'manage t'get hold of a Corpsman?' Shelton asked and Burgie shook his head.

‘Mac been radioin’ on the hour.’ He stated. 

Shelton huffed in response but didn't eloquate a reply. He saw no point. 'He ain't got much left in 'im ‘fore he's done.’ He murmured, stiffly. The admission ached against his chest, the hairs on the back of his neck, prickling.

‘Snaf, he was done yesterday afternoon’ Burgie responded. 'He's been in shock for hours.'

‘No, he _ain't_.’ Shelton snapped, glancing down at Eugene's sleeping head. ‘He ain't come so damn far to miss it by five fuckin' miles.' He breathed heavily, biting down on his back teeth.

'He's clearly...' Burgie began but Shelton cut over him.

'Keep y'fuckin' advice to y'self.' He spat. 'How's about ya do somethin' useful'n _fuck off_ and get Mac _t'radio again_ and see if you can get a goddamn medic to drive out and pick 'im up.' He sucked his teeth. ''cos you comin' in here after bein' gone for five hours givin' me shit 'bout things that ain't _y'damn business_ and makin' stupid ass comments about the state of 'im is about as much use as y'rescue party idea.' 

Burgie swallowed audibly. 'Guess I deserve that.' He murmured.

'Boy, you ain't got no _clue_ what _y'deserve_.' Shelton rebuked, angrily.

He nodded, stiffly, before climbing to his feet. 'I'll see what I can do.' 

Whatever he managed to do, worked.

Not twenty minutes later, he returned, assuring Shelton that the radio operator had said he would get one of the trucks from the airbase to come out to collect Eugene and the Boot.

Shelton nodded gratefully, trying to rouse Eugene to tell him, yet Eugene would not wake up. He lay despondently limp in his arms, muttering through his stupor. Shelton wrapped his arms around him tightly, pressing his nose to his temple as he fought the urge to be violently sick.

* * *

The Corpsmen arrived not half an hour before they were scheduled to move out, driving a four-wheel-truck with a flatbed that Eugene was lifted into before being settled onto a stretcher.

Shelton watched stiffly from over the side of the vehicle as they attached a tourniquet to his leg immediately, injecting him with a vial of clear liquid and pulling the fetid bandages from his leg. Relief washed over him at the knowledge he was finally receiving medical attention.

He could have cried from his own emotional exhaustion. _T_ _hey'd made it._

The last twenty-four hours had been the most draining of not just the war, but his entire life. He'd been convinced that they'd be attacked by Japs, that he'd shoot either Burgie and Mac - perhaps both, or that Eugene wouldn't make it through.

But to his sheer bewilderment, _they'd made it - despite everything._

And he'd do it all a-fucking-gain in a heartbeat if he had to. It had been worth it simply to see Eugene crack his eyes open an inch not a couple of minutes after his medication had been administered.

'Looks far worse than it is.' The Corpsman assured Shelton, with a pat to his shoulder. 'Your buddy'll be patched up in no time.'

He nodded, thanking them.

He could have cried he felt so euphoric. _Eugene was going to be alright._

The news almost made watching him drive away down the track, less painful. _Almost._

They hiked the last five muddy miles, mostly in silence. Each of them absolutely _fucking exhausted._ They joined up with a group from Love Company, who had set off a full afternoon after them and from the sounds of it had had a far less exciting journey.

Shelton stripped off his raggedy utility vest and soaked PT-Shirt, leaving him shirtless. He was too covered in Eugene's blood for his liking. 

As he held his gaze against the back of Burgie's head, he concluded he felt sick at the sheer sight of him. He didn't think he could ever look at him in the eye again. Not without swinging at him. 

He jostled with himself, processing the events of the previous day, simply trying to get his head around Burgie's behaviour.

At least trying to _understand it_.

He couldn't.

By the time they had arrived back at camp, having pondered both the last 24-hours and how he had acted in the previous weeks, Shelton had surmised he would remain true to his word.

As far as he was concerned, he and Burgie were _done._

They were swamped by the rest of the platoon upon arrival. The others had arrived the previous afternoon, Mac's terrible directions, nevermind Eugene's accident, having placed them significantly behind. Many had even given up on their safe return.

Bill had been less concerned, lounging on his bunk in the tent he had pitched for himself, Burgie, Eugene and Shelton.

'You look like shit.' He grinned, as Shelton stumbled inside, having left Burgie to stand shoulder to shoulder with Mac as he received a dressing down for his directional faux-pas.

The expression he gave in response as he dropped his pack onto his rack must have given some insight into how terrible their venture had been. Bill's eyes flashed to the doorway, he sat up stiffly as Shelton lowered himself down.

'Where's Sledge?' He asked, hesitantly, the panic evident in his voice.

'Medical.' Shelton murmured, burying his head into his hands. He sat up. 'Ran int'a few Japs, got hit by a Grenade...' 

Bill whitened. 

'He's fine.' He added, quickly. 'It wasn't direct he... he got some wood in him...' He trailed off. 'He lost a lotta blood, hit his head bad... Doc said he'll be fine.' 

Bill nodded, assuringly, breathing a sigh of relief. 'What about Burgie?' He demanded. 

Shelton huffed a laugh, climbing to his feet. 'Don't say that fucker's name in front'o me.' He muttered, tightly. 'Goin' to see how Gene is.'

'I'm coming!' Bill interjected, stumbling after him.

Eugene lay asleep on a bunk within the medical tent, a significantly better colour to when Shelton had seen him not three hours before. 

According to the doctor, he'd been _extremely lucky._

He bore two fractured ribs, a concussion, significant blood loss, twelve stitches on the cut on his leg, three to the gash on his forehead and a very mild infection that would set in over the next twelve hours or so, that would last no longer than a day - he would ship out with them in time; no bother.

 _N_ _o lasting damage, except a beautiful scar on his leg_. 

He would need to take iron tablets for a few weeks and he would be limping for the foreseeable future, but aside from that, he would be fully recovered within a few days.

However, the doctor had concluded that another hour or so and he might not have been so fortunate.

Shelton bathed immediately after leaving medical. He stood beneath the icy water of the showerhead for far longer than he usually would; scrubbing at his skin until every ounce of Eugene's blood was long washed away.

It was hidden beneath the paltry stream of water than he finally allowed his tears to flow freely, clutching his chest against each gasping sob that fell from him as he was plagued with the events of their trek, plagued with the possibilities of what might have happened, _plagued with the realities of what had happened._

He had composed himself by the time he reached the mess hall, as clean as he could get with cold water and a tiny sliver of soap, but overly grateful for fresh dungarees, a new helmet and the return of both sleeves.

He swallowed the rice and chicken down, hungrily. It had been the first time in weeks that they had received a hot meal and they didn't know how long it would be until they had another.

Resultingly, Bill simply couldn't understand at first, why Shelton stood up from the table and left half of his meal as Burgie attempted to sit down with them in the mess hall. 

It was only when he did in fact _'ask the Sergeant'_ as Shelton so advised, that Bill stared at the stranger in front of him for several moments, before too climbing from the table speechlessly and following him from the tent.

* * *

As predicted, Eugene's fever has set in before long before lights out, that night.

In anticipation, a Corpsman had assisted him to the shower in his earlier moments of lucidity, helping him limp against his freshly stitched injury that was surprisingly less painful than the aching of his ribs in his chest. He had scrubbed at his skin as best he could, struggling to raise his arms above stomach height so simply allowing the water to wash over him.

After he had dried, he changed into a clean uniform, before receiving a final once over by the camp doctor, and finally being allowed to return to his rack shortly nightfall. 

His temperature had soared not an hour after his arrival.

Yet they weren't to worry, according to the Doctor, who gave the assurance that he would sweat the infection out of himself, _no problem._

Bill had scoffed lightly _'heard that before.'_

With the knowledge that Eugene lay in their tent, confined to his bed as he rasped and shuddered, Burgie did all he could to avoid returning.

Especially after the altercation in the mess hall in which Bill had shaken his head disgustedly, muttering _'I should fuckin' knock ten bells of shit outta you_.'

 _He'd have preferred that_ , he concluded. A quick hiding would have hurt far less than the lingering look of disgust that Bill had issued him. 

Yet, despite his best intentions, after losing his last $5 in poker, drowning his sorrows in alcohol masquerading as whiskey and smoking in excess of twenty cigarettes. He had no option but to finally retire. 

Bill lay sound asleep in his rack, snoring lowly as he entered.

Snafu sat shirtless on the edge of Eugene's bunk, cigarette clutched between his lips as he wrang out the wet rag in the bucket of tepid water at his feet.

The pair were illuminated by the low glare of an oil lamp on the upturned ammo box beside them. Burgie was cast back to visions of Eugene doing the same for Shelton. _It bore the same intimacy._

He had been fighting _with_ them back then... when Mac was the pariah - the enemy who stood in the way of Shelton being able to move out with them.

Now he was the benevolent figure that had challenged their unity.

The statement that having a light on at night was a court martial-able offence died against Burgie's lips as quickly as it sprang. _He wanted to punch himself for merely thinking it._

Eugene stuttered in his sleep, muttering, his head tossing and turning against his flat pillow as he lay in a fitful sleep. Shelton shushed him gently.

It felt perverse to watch them; _an intrusion_.

'Is he alright?' Burgie's voice was barely audible as he spoke, so quiet that wondered whether or not Shelton had heard him.

From the way his shoulders tensed in response to the question, he knew better than to ask again.

Shelton ignored him, taking the rag in his hand and pressing it against Eugene's sweaty neck and collar bone with a tenderness that Snafu was not capable of. He daubed at the tacky skin as Burgie watched on, running the cloth up across his face, his cheek, his forehead. Carefully avoiding the gauze that covered his brow.

He flashed back to Eugene lying in the dirt between them, as they argued over his fate.

He felt sick at his own naivety that they could have returned for him. They were never going to; Mac had admitted as such after a few drinks. 

Shelton had been right, regardless.

Even if they had returned for him, it would have been too long before, they would have had the chance to get back. He wouldn't have recovered, not easily. That was if he had even still been alive. It would have been the end of Eugene's war, either way.

He sat down gingerly on the edge of the rack by the door where he had briefly tossed his pack earlier that afternoon. 

The silence within the tent was deafening.

‘Snaf.’ Burgie murmured, hesitantly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Shelton scoffed, mirthlessly. ‘Ain’t me you should be 'pologisin' to.’ He muttered. ‘I ain’t the one ya planned t'leave for dead.’

The statement stung, but it was better than being ignored.

‘I wouldn’t…’ He began, unsure of how he was going to finish the sentence.

Shelton's shoulders tensed again. 'Yes.’ He hissed. ‘Yes, you would. Yes, you _fucking would_. ’

‘I _didn’t._ ’ He stated, quietly, lowering his gaze to the floor.

Shelton scoffed again, dunking the rag back into the bucket. 'Yeah but you would'a.’ He spat.

Another silence descended.

'Does he need anything?' Burgie asked, hesitantly.

'Not from you.' He responded, scornfully. 

'Snaf, come on.' He pressed.

'What would you'a've done?' Shelton asked, provocatively. _'Now?'_

Burgie's brow twitched. 'What d'ya mean?' Burgie asked. 

'If we'd left 'im there?' He continued. 'I can't get past that... the thought of it.' He sucked his lips. 'Have _you_ thought about it? Him still lying in that _fuckin' bog?_ Bleedin' out? Covered in flies? Been pissed on by Nips? Bein' shot a few times for the fun'a it? Been trussed to a tree? Cut at? _Tortured_?' 

Burgie stayed silent, despondency washing over him. _He hadn't,_ he realised. But he was now. He felt stunningly sick at the thought.

'Would y'a've played Poker then? Got drunk? _Laughed?_ ' Shelton asked. 'Would'ya feel guilty? Would'ya've cried? Would'ya've even thought about it? Or would'ya've been too busy gettin' your ass licked by Louies?'

'You know sure as shit I wouldn't.' Burgie murmured, objectionably.

'No, Burg.' Shelton shook his head. 'No, I don't. _Not anymore_.' He finally turned his head to look at him. 'Since you got that fuckin' arrow on your shoulder I don't recognise you one bit. Thought you were just a self-inflated mother fucker... ' He laughed to himself. '... never considered ya'a rat... never would'a thought so low o'ya.' 

'Snaf, I wouldn't've let anything happen to him.' Burgie murmured. 'We _would_ have gone back.'

Shelton stuttered, lightly. 'Y'know I don't believe ya one bit.' He stated. 'All it would'a taken is Mac sayin' you ain't got the time and you'd've taken it... _no fightin'_.'

Burgie's chest felt tight. He lowered his gaze, tears hot against his cheeks as reality finally began to set in.

‘An’ he can never know that.’ He glanced back towards Eugene’s sleeping figure, rolled over onto his side, his fidgeting having calmed. ‘Would _cripple_ him.’ He muttered, pulling the woollen blanket over Eugene's exposed back. ‘Looks up to ya like a brother... even after how fuckin' _awful_ you've treated him these last weeks... that shit wi'the lighter at Keise Shima...’ He shook his head, disgustedly. 'He still thought you'd look out for him... you were s'posed to... you're' his _sergeant,_ after all... even if you say you ain't his friend.'

Burgie's lip wobbled. Tears dropped down onto his hands. ‘I don’t know why… I don’t know what…’

‘Fuckin’ _glory_.’ Shelton interjected sharply, re-lighting his cigarette burnt-out cigarette. He pressed his fingers to the nape of Eugene's clammy neck and cussed lowly when he was no cooler than an hour ago. He re-wet the wet flannel and pressed it back over his skin. ‘You were so _fuckin’ excited_ 'bout bein’ the next Basilone you that y'forgot to look around ya.’

Burgie remained silent.

'You were so busy moving up ya forgot who got y'here in the first place.' Shelton continued, one hand resting against Eugene's middle as he spoke, the other clutched around his cigarette. 'Been together since Boot Camp, Burg.' He murmured, painfully. 'Now I can't stand to fuckin' _look at ya._ '

'Snaf... please...' Burgie began thickly, but Shelton shook his head despondently.

‘Shut up and get out...' He responded. ‘You ain’t fuckin’ sleepin’ in here.’

‘Snaf.’ He repeated, desperately.

‘Get the fuck out, Burgin.’ He repeated, pitilessly. ‘You ain’t stayin’ in here like _you one of us_.’

‘ _Shelton._ ’ Burgie amended imploringly.

When Shelton turned, Burgie was rendered speechless by the tears in his eyes, he looked _unbearably_ distraught. He looked away, unable to bear the sight.

‘D’ya get what you nearly did today?’ Shelton breathed, liquid hot and heavy against his cheeks. ‘Do you understand that we nearly _lost Gene,_ cos'a you?’

'They... they were Mac's orders!' Burgie stammered, wiping his own eyes.

'But you followed _through on 'em!_ ' Shelton snapped, his voice cracking agonisingly. 

Burgie nodded, sniffing thickly. ‘And I'm _sorry..._ I swear to God, Snaf. It was... fuckin'... I don't even know... _unforgivable_... I swear it will never happen again.’ He paused. 'I'm not gonna be a prick anymore, I promise... I've been an asshole, a complete _dick..._ but I swear it won't happen again!'

‘Damn right it won’t.’ Shelton answered, sniffing as he dragged a hand over his eyes and cleared his throat. ‘Cos you ain’t coming anywhere fuckin’ near him. _We’re done_ , Burgie.’ He hissed. ‘Take your shit and go bunk down with the other Motarded 90-Day-Wonders.’ He clenched his teeth. ‘Semper _I,_ Romus.’

Burgie sat for a moment as Shelton turned his back on him, again.

Slowly, he shut his eyes nodding to himself, _there had been no coming back from this_. He'd made his bed, now he had to lie in this; _this was the least he deserved._

With a final wipe of his eyes, he rose to his feet before shouldering his seabag and turning to leave the tent.

_'No.’_

Burgie turned back.

Eugene’s voice sounded utterly exhausted as it broke through the air. Shelton closed his eyes. He hadn't been asleep, at all. 

'Gene, go back to sleep.' He urged, his voice soft and gentle. A complete contrast to how he'd been talking to Burgie.

 _‘He’s stayin’… here.’_ Came the laboured reply.

Eugene forced himself up onto his elbows, crying out against the pain in his ribs as he did. Shelton tried to push him down, muttering imploringly, but Eugene pushed him off.

'He's... staying here.' Eugene gasped, defiantly. 'You heard him, he _knows_ he did wrong... you _ain't_ kickin' him out. Not now.'

‘Gene, he's right - _lie down_!’ Burgie implored. ‘Gene, lie down.’

‘Only if you’ll stay.’ He responded, staring up desperately at Shelton. ‘I want him to stay.’

Shelton gazed at him for a moment, before lowering his eyes to his knees. He nodded once, acquiescing. Gently, he moved his hands back to his shoulder, pushing him down again, this time Eugene allowed it, settling himself back against the sheets.

He pulled the blanket back over him.

‘You got nothin’ to worry about.’ He urged, running his hand along Eugene's shoulder as he shuddered beneath his grasp. ‘Go back to sleep, _we’re right here,_ go back to sleep.’

It wasn’t a retraction of his tirade, yet neither was it an enforcement, either.

Burgie slowly replaced his seabag on his rack, sniffing and clearing his throat.

‘Ain’t… your fault.’ Eugene stated, his eyes sinking shut. ‘It ain't his _fault, Snaf_ … he was just tryin’ to do his job.’

The cluck in Shelton’s throat earnt him a weak slap to his side from Eugene.

‘Leave him alone.’ He hissed. ‘ _Leave him alone_.’

‘Go back to sleep.’ Shelton repeated, gently threading his fingers against Eugene’s hair, still bearing remnants of dried dirt where he'd struggled to wash. ‘We’re right here, go back to sleep.’

Slowly, his breaths deepened as he drifted back to sleep.

Silently, Shelton glared up at Burgie. His jaw twitching as he held eye contact with him, desperate for him to understand the enormity of - _That. That is what we nearly lost today. That is who you nearly took from us. That is who you nearly took from me._

He turned his back to him once again, wiping at Eugene’s balmy skin with the cold water as the agonising silence resumed.

The only sound in the tent to be heard was Eugene’s breathing, Bill's snoring, the puff of Shelton's cigarettes, the odd sluice of water and the sound of Burgie sniffing as he cried.

The worst thing about Okinawa hadn't been the Japs at all, no matter how horrifying their behaviour or how they seemed to appear from thin air.

It hadn't even been how they had lost one another in the weeks since shipping out, the island managing to tear even the closest of brothers apart. 

No, the worst part of Okinawa had been that they had lost themselves somewhere along the way.

Whether they would ever get back to how they had been - who was to say?

Certainly not Burgie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading - and congratulations if you made it to the end!
> 
> I'd love to know what you think!
> 
> * Title taken from a quote from All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque - which is a bloody incredible book and has an amazing 1979 adaptation that gives such a heartwrenching portrayal of boys at war. *
> 
> ** I would also like to apologise to poor Burgie... I did you absolutely dirty and it wasn't fair... keep being you, you are a perfect angel... just stop being a dick and distance yourself from Mac - he is a terrible influence on you and not your friend! **


	6. These mountains you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One time they fought each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank every one of you for supporting the story.
> 
> I've been truly blown away by all your kind words.
> 
> I hope the ending lives up to your expectations.
> 
> Good luck.

Eugene let out a scream against the torrent of water that flooded over him.

He threw his hands up; in a bid to protect himself against the filthy onslaught as he cried out, still half asleep.

His memory flashed.

He was choking against mouthfuls of muddy sludge as they suffocated him, the stench of burning skin and gunpowder filled his nose, the screaming of his name echoed in his ears as he collapsed beneath oblivion. There's the tang of blood, there's the mouthful of Shelton's shirt and hands in his hair, the instruction _'go now'_ and then the agonising pain erupting throughout his body.

Suddenly, a sharp kick to his thigh and the shove against his arm dragged him back to reality.

'Shut the _fuck up!'_

Eugene blinked. There was no muddy creek; there was no screaming of his name - there was only Okinawa and a collapsed canvas sheet dripping above him. The grey sky glared down at him, the horizon adorned blackened rain clouds looming angrily, full to bursting and threatening to flood their contents down from the heavens at any given moment.

It took him less than half a second to swallow back his biting fears, replacing them with anger. His lip contorted viciously as he lashed back out against his bedmate, his filthy boot kicking out against the fabric of equally dirty trouser as he collided against the skin below. 

'You're fucking _useless!'_ He hissed, forcing himself up on his elbows as he wiped the murky water of a night's worth of accumulated rainfall from his face. 'You had to fasten the fucking rivets... is it that _damn_ hard?!' 

Pulling himself into a sitting position, he grabbed the offensive metal clip from the mud beside him, glaring up at the flapping canvas overhead which had served as their temporary roof for the night only to collapse above him, drenching him to the skin.

He glanced down at the man beside him still lying _bone dry_ and mostly undisturbed by his outburst, Eugene eyed his own sopping uniform. Rage surged through his veins as he surveyed him. His rain slicker draped over him as a blanket, dark, grubby curls barely visible beneath the arm slung over his head. _How dare he?!_

He launched the rivet as hard as he could at his back, causing him to let out a grunt of shock quickly followed by a growl of fury, upon its impact. 

Shelton shot up, flinging around at the assault.

'You fuckin' throwin' shit at me for?!' He retorted, grabbing hold of the rivet hurling it back at Eugene. It hit him directly in the crotch and he grabbed himself, wincing with a shout.

Shelton's tirade continued unperturbed. ' _I'm useless?!_ Says the fuckin' rich boy wants the whole world on his fuckin' plate... can't handle a nip of goddamn water.'

Eugene shoved him back, the painful sear reduced to a dull ache. 'You just don't care about anyone but _yourself_.' He rebuked, flinging the rivet back at him and shoving him. 'Convenient how _your side_ stayed up.'

Shelton pushed him back. 'You wanna fucking _go_ , Sledge?' He demanded, eyes flashing with fury. 'I knock the shit outta you, you stuck up asshole!'

_'No!'_

The interjection of a third voice made them both pause; glancing further down the hill to its source. 

Burgie lifted himself onto his elbows, grimly wiping sleep from his eyes as he glared at them both.

'You _know_ the fuckin' rules!' He hissed warningly, pointing at them each in turn. 'You don't start until chow's brought... ain't no chow yet... lie the _fuck down_ and go _back to sleep_.'

They glared at one another. 

'NOW!' He added, angrily. 

'I ain't fuckin' sleepin'.' Eugene snapped, reaching towards his seabag for his pipe. 'Not covered in this shit.'

'Then think about the _rest of us_!' Burgie concluded as he lay back down. ' _Too fuckin' early for this shit... I'm sick of the pair of ya already.'_

The rest of the platoon remained silent, awaiting with baited breath to see if the pair of them would heed Burgie's warning. They knew better than to attempt to get involved, by now. It only ever made the arguments escalate.

Beside him, Shelton muttered irately beneath his breath, giving him a final elbow before lying down and rolling away.

Eugene shoved him back before proceeding to pack his pipe furiously, his heart pounding seethingly as he did. He reached for his lighter and struck it, only for it to gasp out pitifully in response.

There was a skitter across the floor of their tarp. He glanced down to see Shelton's lighter lying beside him. He reached for it, igniting it and setting the tobacco alight.

He closed the lighter and leant to pass it back, only to see that Shelton had resumed his previous position, curled away from him beneath his slicker. He reached forward, pressing it into the pocket of his exposed trouser leg.

Shelton flinched at the contact and neither of them made any attempt of conversation.

They had been arguing for weeks.

Vicious, angry words and biting comments being thrown against each other from the second they awoke to the moment they went to bed. 

The rest of the platoon must have been exhausted from hearing it; hell, Eugene knew he was exhausted and he was the one doing the arguing. Yet he had nothing to say to Shelton unless it was in the form of abuse.

It was utterly relentless; it had been from the moment they had started. Then again, how could it be anything but? Merriell Shelton was not a man to have anything but the last word. However, to both the platoon's and their own surprise nor, did it turn out, was Eugene Sledge. 

Whether it was annoying the others or not; frankly Eugene did not have it in himself to care - he found he cared little about anything these days; including Shelton.

They weren't nice to each other, they weren't cordial, they weren't even polite; they were downright fucking _vicious_. 

They would march down the trek, Shelton struggling beneath the heat and the weight of the mortar. Eugene would deliver a kick up his backside with a: _hurry the fuck up, you useless bastard!_

They would load the mortar amidst the scream of the battlefield and Shelton would still find the wherewithal to shove his shoulder and yell: _YOU TRYIN' TO GET US KILLED? CONCENTRATE! Who taught y't'shoot?! Helen fuckin' Keller?!_

They would fight about who was digging the foxhole correctly, they bickered about who was first one watch, how the other was just _too fuckin' annoyin' to look at._

The rest of the company would fall asleep to the sound of them berating one another. Shelton hissing that he wasn't trying hard enough to fall asleep. Eugene threatening to suffocate him with a sock if he didn't _shut the fuck up._

Yet when Burgie gave the helpful suggestion that they swap foxhole partners, they laughed in his face: _What fucker would be sorry enough to get this dumbass?_

Eugene was positive that the rest of the platoon _enjoyed_ the silent treatments they would descend to. The times they refused to so much as share the same patch of dirt - let alone even glance in one another's direction.

Such periods lasted for hours, _for days,_ until one of them goaded the other out of it. Eugene would give Shelton a dirty look or Shelton would click his tongue in Eugene's direction and the entire rigmarole would begin again.

Eugene didn't enjoy it. He far preferred the arguing, as exhaustive as it was. Because despite how angry he may have been, it meant that Shelton would still talk to him.

And that was saying something because they argued **_dirty._**

Eugene would make some inference to the gold that weighed heavily in Shelton’s pockets, tossing his KA-BAR towards him and opening his mouth demonstratively.

Shelton would rip Eugene’s bible out of his hands, threaten to toss it into the latrine or shove it down his own dungarees, provokingly telling him that if God were real he would smite him down. _He'd at least make Eugene grow a fuckin' backbone._

Then the nights would fall when they didn't have to keep watch and they sat shoulder to shoulder waist-deep in mud - muttering furiously as one elbowed the other and then the second kicked out at the first.

It would continue until they eventually fell asleep, leaning anywhere but against each other. Yet by morning, without fail, Eugene would awake tucked against Shelton’s shoulder, with Shelton's cheek resting against his head. Never once did it occur to them to sleep apart.

Eugene was always the first to wake. He would sit in silence as he processed the events of the previous weeks; the arguments of the previous days, sometimes packing his pipe, other times staring into nothingness as he turned the words round and round in his head.

Once he had gotten himself sufficiently riled, out of nowhere, he would try to push Shelton's head away, only for him to roll back once, twice until Eugene lost interest entirely, shoving him harshly until he fell away in the mud.

Their arguing was permitted from breakfast time and they didn't waste a single moment. 

Shelton would mutter beneath his breath in French. Eugene would hiss at him to speak in English. Shelton would retort that if he was asking a question he would do. Eugene would then mutter something too quiet to hear and Shelton would push him and shout _enunciate, Eugene!_ Which would only rile him further, because he had been the one to teach him that word.

The day would progress in an entirely similar fashion until it was time for bed. It was a cycle, Eugene had found - argue, sleep, silent treatment, argue, sleep, silent treatment and on and on and on.

Yet nothing turned them as bone-chillingly vicious as when someone else would make the mistake of joining in.

Because they may have been arguing, but that wasn't an invitation for anyone else to join in and _woe betides_ the poor fucker who tried. 

It was usually one of the Boots.

Perhaps one would agree that Shelton was unhinged or express disgust at the fact he had a pocket full of blood-soaked fillings. Or another would sneer at Eugene about Jesus, titter at the fact he wasted his time writing when he'll be dead in a few weeks.

They would flash around, as quick as a whip. The fury usually directed at one another, momentarily casting to the third party, in defence.

 _‘The fuck you say about him, you shit?’_ Was Eugene’s go-to, compared to Shelton’s far more eloquent. _‘Again, prick?’_

The offender would offer a stuttered apology in response, before they returned to their argument, continuing to berate one another in their previous fashion.

It would escalate until Burgie finally reached his breaking point.

He would swear at them both, sometimes grabbing their heads and knocking them together, other times slapping them at the base of their skulls, frustratedly.

They would be relegated to opposite ends of the dugout as Burgie positioned himself in between them, laying his rifle down into the mud and baiting one of them to cross it.

They would glare seethingly at one another, _he started it._

 _Well, I'm fucking finishing it!_ Burgie would snap. _Now one more fucking word outta either of you!_

They were never brave enough to challenge him.

Yet that never stopped him from snorting as Shelton ridiculed Burgie behind his back, pulling faces or offering a sarcastic salute, just, Eugene suspected, to make him laugh, in the hope of landing him in further trouble. 

That was the worst thing, Eugene found. They couldn't be civil when they spoke, yet when they were apart, he ached to get back to him. 

Then, the second they were reunited they were tearing at one another like dogs, because some things simply couldn't be forgiven.

The Boots never believed that he and Shelton were close; assuming it to be some kind of joke.

Bill's assurance that they really were Albert and Costello seemed like a crude dig.

It seemed a million years ago that they spoke with kind words and intimacies.

Seemed a million years ago since Shelton had cradled him in a foxhole.

And fuck did that hurt.

* * *

Shelton's smell had been Eugene's only constant that day; rugged dirt, mixed with stale smoke and so unmistakably him.

Eugene would have buried himself deep within his smell, if he could. Trap himself deep down beneath the safety of his skin, where he wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to _be_ anything or _do_ anything other than relish in its sanctity.

Down where every moment and every touch they shared would be hidden and nothing would be dangerous and nothing would need talking or thinking about.

But climbing beneath Shelton's skin had never been an option. So, instead, Eugene settled for simply embedding himself as closely against it as he could.

The rain had eased off when he had felt himself be jostled lightly.

'Gene?' Shelton's voice had urged softly.

Eugene blinked, expelling a low grunt. _When had he fallen asleep?_ He had been trying desperately hard to stay awake, but it was _so damn difficult._

He was so fucking tired and his head felt so sore and he felt so weak and weary. He couldn't feel his leg at all anymore, but he couldn't for the life of him think why. In some distant part of his brain, he realised that he couldn't remember the events of the day that had led them here. He felt _so cold_ and _so confused_.

He pondered distantly whether that was something to worry about. But as he nuzzled closer to Shelton's skin, he simply couldn't find it in himself to care.

Not when Shelton was so warm against his icy body.

Not when Eugene had his face buried against his chest and all he could inhale was his smell, breathing steadily in time to his heartbeat, with Shelton's arms were wrapped tightly around him, cocooning him from the world and any dangers it may pose.

They would never in their right minds sit like this in public; not so openly.

But something in Eugene's mind told him that tonight what different. Then again, most nights were different, they served as a blanket, over their acts - keeping them safe from the prying eyes of others.

Eugene resolved he could feel whatever he wanted beneath his blanket. Shelton would never judge him; because they were friends.

That's all they were; all they were ever going to be, that was all this was - _they were friends; just very close friends_.

 _I doubt men like Snafu sing to their friends in French._ A little voice murmured but he slapped his hand to the side to silence it.

It was only when Shelton issued a dull grunt as his hand collided against his chest that he realised the voice had been within his own head.

Eugene murmured slightly in apology; pressing his face back to Shelton's shirt and he felt a hand run through his hair.

'Stay awake for me, Sledgehammer.' He heard. Y'promised me.'

He raised his head with a start, blinking forcefully to rouse himself of his stupor. _Because Shelton had told him to stay awake and he would do anything Shelton asked of him at this point._

He felt a thumb moving against his jawline. 'Gene, look it.' Shelton repeated, tugging lightly at his hair. 

''s'it?' Eugene mumbled, vision hazy. He tried to focus around the foxhole. 'Burgie, back?' He asked.

'Not yet.' He responded. 'Will be soon.' _Why did he sound so pissed off? Was he pissed off at the fact he wasn't staying awake?_

He tried to sit up in the hope of appeasing him, letting out a groan and a yelp as he jarred himself... _Why was his leg so damn sore?_

'Easy...' Shelton murmured. 'Go slow...' 

The rain had stopped since the last time he'd woken. He could have been positive he had been wearing a helmet when he fell asleep.

He did as instructed, resting his head against Shelton's drenched shoulder... _Why didn't he have his slicker on?_

'Look what I been doin'...' He prompted. There was a flick of light as he ignited his newly appropriated lighter and the foxhole was illuminated by its dull glow. 

Eugene's gaze was drawn to Shelton's hands. _They were drenched in blood._

'You've cut yourself.' He murmured, distantly. He raised his hand to touch Shelton's.

The blood was dried, ingrained onto his skin beneath the muck and the rainwater. _It was old._

'When d'ya... cut yourself? He asked, twisting to look up at him, panic-stricken. 'Do you need a... a Corpsman?' 

He watched Shelton's brow twitch slightly, confusion etching across his face. 

'I can get you a Corpsman?' He tried again, he moved to sit up, fighting back a wince. It didn't matter he was in pain; he'd crawl if Shelton needed him to. 'Just... just... just...' He frowned, his lips stuck around that word as everything momentarily became hazy. '... just tell me what you need.' He managed to spit as he felt his body be drawn backwards again - back towards Shelton.

'Don't worry none...' He murmured against Eugene's ear after a moment, wearing an expression like he had figured something out. _Whatever it was he didn't share it._ 'Just need you with me here.' He assured him, pressing his cheek against the side of his head. 'Just you right here - 's'all I need y'ta worry 'bout.'

Eugene nodded.

'Look.' He urged again, more gentle this time. Eugene did, finally noticed what he had been attempting to show him - a letter.

'Who's it from?' He asked, dumbly and Shelton scoffed lightly against his hair, settling him back against the curve of his shoulder, the arm holding the lighter aloft and settling safely around him. 

'Me.' He answered. 

'Why... you... writin' to yourself?' Eugene muttered, frowning. _I'd write to him if he was that lonely._

'Ain't _to me,_ y'idiot.' He rebuked, his voice barely above a whisper. ''s'to my sister.'

Despite his inexplicable stupor, goosebumps shivered up his arms. 

'Your sister?' Eugene repeated. 'You're writin' your sister?'

'Tryin'.' Shelton responded, sounding bashful. 'Need to find a way to get hold o'her... the address I got been out o'date f'years...'

Eugene licked his lips. 'Can contact the war office for that... they'll get in touch wi'the people.' He answered, unable to think of _"The Peoples'"_ official title, but that didn't matter. 'You write to 'em with her name, date of birth, last known address... they'll track her down... had an Uncle did it.'

'Yeah?' Shelton asked, tentatively. 'See knew your big ol' head'd come in handy.' He tapped it demonstratively and Eugene let out a smile. _He wasn't mad anymore._

He squinted at the letter, trying to make out the handwriting against the semi-lit pages. He couldn't. 

Shelton seemed to be able to tell. 'I've started it - _Dear Essie._ ' He began, pointing to the scribble.

Eugene nodded as though he could read it, desperately trying not to upset him - he was unsure whether it was Shelton's poor handwriting or his own blurring vision.

Shelton continued, unperturbed. 'Cos you said letters should start with _Dear_.'

'Did I?' He asked, wracking his brain for such an instruction. 

'Why's'that wrong?' Shelton's voice sounded concerned, fearful that he had gotten it wrong.

Instantly, Eugene shook his head. 'No!' He objected, perhaps a little too forcefully. 's'Perfect.'

He felt something trickle down his face, warm and achingly. He raised his hand to touch whatever it was but Shelton blocked his arm.

'Pay no mind.' He murmured, shifting the lighter and letter to the same hand as he wiped whatever was running down Eugene's face. 'Ain't no shit there...' He trailed off. 'Just a bit'a rain's all.'

 _Since when did rainfall hurt or come from your head?_ He thought but pressed the matter no further.

'Read the letter.' Eugene urged. 'We ain't read in an age... you ain't _wanted_ t'read in an age... thought I'd...' _done something wrong._ He paused. '...thought y'didn't wanna learn how anymore.' He amended.

'Yeah well, I'm an idiot.' Shelton responded, passing the lighter back to his other hand. 'Damn Couyon's me.' 

Eugene huffed a laugh, understanding enough of his bastardised French to know he was insulting himself. 

'I'll read if y'promise y'won't laugh at it.' He continued.

Eugene frowned. 'I'd never...' He stated, before trailing off, exhausted by his stilted conversation attempts. Shelton seemed appeased enough by his answer to continue.

'Says - _Dear Essie_.' He began, finger tracking beneath each word. 

Eugene glanced to his face, making out the pronunciation of his jaw as he tucked his teeth against the bottom of his mouth - a sign of his complete concentration. He was overwhelmed by the urge to reach out and touch him.

' _It's Merriell_.' He continued and Eugene dragged his gaze back to the letter. 'I know you're supposed t'a'write y'name at the bottom but I didn't want her readin' all the way wi' no clue who the fuck it's from.' 

''s'a Good idea.' Eugene agreed.

' _I know it's been an awful long time since we spoke. I'm real sorry for that. I am at war right now. I hope you ain't. There's dames here in the aid stations but war ain't no place for a girl. Specially not one like you. It's your birthday today_.'

He paused.

'Well it's been her birthday, started it a few days before but it's taken me longer'n I thought and then I figured I got no way to send it to her... but I can just pretend I sent it on her birthday... she never were the brightest.'

Eugene smiled, tears warm in is eyes.

' _You are eighteen today I hope you have friends to party with. You'll look real sad drinking alone. Have one for me. But nothing Japanese and not wine, wine is fuckin' awful. Sorry for swearing.'_ He gestured with his hand. 'I don't know if she swears, she was raised by Christians.'

Eugene nodded in approval.

_'You was only a slip when I last saw you bet I wouldn't recognise ya. You'll be real pretty if you didn't get Daddy's chin. Doubt you would recognise me neither but that's good because I'm a real ugly bastard.'_

Eugene let out a snort of laughter, objections to the contrary falling silent against his lips.

_'It will be eight years in July since we last seen each other. I would like to hear from you even if you just say hey. I have put the a... address on the envelope where you can reach me. If I am dead they will send the letter back.'_

Eugene closed his eyes, smiling dryly at the bluntness of his wording.

' _God Bless, Merriell.'_ He wiped the droplets of water from the pencilled letter with his thumb. 'Cos y'know... I wanted somethin' that sounded brotherly... didn't want her thinkin' me an asshole too soon and y'know... _Christians like God.'_

'You can't get past the Christians can you?' Eugene rebuked, affectionately. 

'Everyone got their downfalls.' Shelton answered and Eugene laughed again, wearily. 'What d'ya think? That OK?' 

'It's really good.' He answered, his voice sounding distant. 'I'm proud of you.' _His mouth was running away from him, again._ 'It's great... _you're_ great...' His eyes flew open, without him even realising he'd shut them. ' _It's great...'_ He amended. 'It's great. Real good. She'll love it.'

The light was suddenly extinguished, plunging them back into darkness.

'Yeah?' Shelton asked, quietly, and Eugene allowed his eyes to sink back closed, swallowing his own mortification.

'Yeah.' He affirmed. 

He felt Shelton's hand tugging lightly at his leg. _What was it about his leg?_ He was jostled slightly as he felt himself be repositioned, keeping his eyes firmly closed. His head was suddenly back against the warmth of his chest - _rugged dirt, mixed with stale smoke and so unmistakably him._ He rested his face against the fabric. 

'Get some sleep, Gene.' Shelton's voice urged, sounding closer than he had expected, the warmth of his breath tickled against his ear. 

'Will you keep watch?' Eugene asked, distantly.

There was a rustling of paper and fabric, then a chink of lighter and the burning of a cigarette, the unmistakable first inhale of nicotine and Shelton's puff of breath as he blew out smoke. 

'I'll keep watch, Sledgehammer.' He murmured assuringly, hand threading gently against Eugene's hair, fingers scratching at his scalp. 'Don't worry.'

He sank back to sleep before even processing the permission he had just been granted. But he didn't worry about it, because Shelton told him not to. 

* * *

Eugene puffed at his pipe solemnly, fighting against the urge to relieve himself - to do so would signify the end of his nighttime tranquillity. Their broken tent was by no means comfortable but it was the closest thing he had to a bed. _It was just a pity about his bedmate._

They had arrived at Wana Ridge the previous afternoon, with the order to pitch their covers and settle in for the night. He should have just assembled the entire damn thing himself - it would have held for fucking longer!

They hadn't spoken a word as they had expertly erected their canvas against the darkening sky.

Their shelter was pitiful, but they slept better beneath it after a week of naked foxholes than if it were the grand Ritz itself - to Eugene's chagrin he knew it was partly down to the fact that Shelton's back was warm against his own. His low snores reminded him that Shelton was still in there; _somewhere_.

If the rest of the company had to pinpoint it; they would say their arguing had started with the girl - the girl on the side of the road.

Eugene would agree. 

They had been marching. Where? No one could quite remember. But they all remembered _her_.

She looked around thirteen - could have been older, could have been younger. It was so very difficult to pinpoint their age. War ravaged an individual, regardless of whether they were a child or not.

What had caught their attention was two things; the fact she was entirely alone and the fact she was barely clothed, covered in blood - all the way from the clump in her dark hair to the stream running down between her thighs. 

They stared at her.

It was so very difficult to separate the Japanese from the Okinawans; they looked identical.

But a kid of this age? Especially one who looked as utterly traumatised as the girl on the side of the road did, quivering and shaking desolately? She was no enemy.

Then again, they never looked like an enemy. Not until they were exploding on the end of a bomb. To pity them could be suicide; it so often was. 

That was the worst thing about Okinawa. They were punished for what last shreds of humanity they clutched on to. 

Several of the passing marines catcalled and whistled as they passed her, a little girl young enough to be their sister - their daughter, in some instances. It was always the assholes of the group, the fuckers that no one really liked, the deplorable bastards who shot at kids, just because they could. 

'She's been through the wringer.' Burgie stated, stiffly. 

'Check those ta-tas.' Bill added, lightly. 

Eugene sucked his teeth repulsively, as Burgie reached forward and shoved his head.

'You're a repugnant human being.' Eugene snapped. 'D'ya know that?'

'She's a fuckin' _kid_ , Bill.' Burgie agreed. 'Have some damn class.' 

It was the lack of Shelton interjection, lewd or otherwise, that made him them glance back to see him stood further down the trail, rummaging in his pack.

'The fuck is he doin'?' Eugene murmured, suppressing the urge to run after him and drag him back in line, right next to him where he could at least try to ensure he was safe. 

'SNAFU!' Burgie called loudly, he glanced up at the call of his name. 'Fall in!' 

Yet Shelton, turned his head, keeping his gaze firmly from them. 

It had been a little over a month since _'the incident' -_ which they had agreed to never speak about again. 

True to his word, Burgie's aim to climb through the ranks on the backs of his brethren had drawn to an immediate close. Nothing even remotely similar had happened again. He fulfilled his duties with a firm, fair hand. Keeping a polite, professional distance from his superiors whilst they prepared to attempt to paper over the cracks within their friendship.

To Eugene and Bill; that was sufficient.

Shelton, true to _his_ _word,_ had too made an effort... of sorts - sharing only his eye rolls and beneath the breath comments for the presence of Eugene and he alone.

He was hurting; Eugene knew that. It would take time, but he was trying. He had shared a cigarette with him the other day and even enquired about Florence; to Shelton that was a declaration of love.

He knew Burgie appreciated it. He remained so terrified that their friendship would never recover that he continued to tiptoe around Shelton, all these weeks later. His orders sounded more like suggestions than commands, which Shelton, on the whole, gracefully adhered to.

Yet this was not one of those times.

They watched in horror as he broke ranks, stepping out of the procession towards the girl, an object clutched in his grasp.

'Snaf!' Eugene's voice was higher than he anticipated as he stumbled back down the trek towards him batting against the rubbernecking boots as he attempted to get to him, Burgie and Bill somewhere at his heels.

Fraternising with the locals without express permission from a high ranking officer was forbidden. Especially mid-trek. For him to do so wasn't just a court-martial-able offence; it was downright fucking dangerous.

Shelton stood in front of her, gazing at her tentatively. She stared at him, trembling and shaking, she flinched as he held his hand out. After a moment, she braved a glance down, pacified he would not strike her. His PT Shirt was clutched in his grasp.

Eugene was just close enough to hear him speak.

'Cover y'self up.' He murmured, gesturing for her to take the clothing. She stared at him blankly. 'Couvrir?' He tried. 's'habiller?' Nothing. He sighed lightly, before reaching for her hand and pressing the garment into her grasp. 'Get dressed.'

Without another word, he turned, just as Eugene reached him, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him away forcefully.

His heart pounded in his throat and he fought the urge to be sick. _How could he do something so stupid?!_

'What in God's name are you doin'?' He demanded furiously as they stood a little out the way of the marching men.

He looked over to see the girl heading further back up the track, t-shirt clutched tightly in her grasp.

'Givin' the poor fuck somethin' t'wear.' Shelton responded, yanking his arm back casting a glance over his shoulder at her. 'Be raped wanderin' round like that.'

'How you know she ain't got a bomb?' Eugene spat, ignoring the truth in such a sentiment. 

' _Fuck off_ , Sledge.' His muttered. 'She ain't got no bomb... she's only a kid.'

'We seen kids half her damn age strapped up to the heavens.' He rebuked, angrily.

Shelton scoffed. 'Well, she didn't? Did she?' He shrugged. 'Forget it, Sledgehammer - ain't nothin' happened... why you twistin' your panties?' He moved to step back in line. 

_No, he wasn't getting off that easily._

Eugene grabbed his wrist, unsure of what he was going to say. What made him say the following sentence, in particular, he had no clue.

'She ain't Essie, Snaf...' He stated, lowly. 'You don't gotta make up for nothin'... don't gotta protect kids round here cos ya couldn't protect her.'

There was a single moment in which the words settled. 

Shelton stopped.

He turned; wearing a harrowing expression unlike anything Eugene had ever seen. He would have given all of his worldly possessions to be able to swallow the sentence back down.

Shelton opened his mouth, pointing his finger, his hand shaking. He moved his lips, both nothing came out, his eyes were frantic and Eugene was under no illusion if anyone else had said something so hurtful, he'd have laid them out flat.

' _Never_.' He hissed, voice like gravel, as he shoved against his chest. 'Say any shit to me like that again, Eugene...' His breath shook. 'Who _THE FUCK_ d'you think you are?' 

'Boys, move out.' Burgie's voice interjected stiffly.

Eugene had forgotten he and Bill were even there. They ignored him.

'You don't know _fuck all_ about me, Sledge... know your damn place.' He continued, pushing his shoulder forcefully. The action was enough to make Eugene stumble back against his bad leg. He tripped backwards with a painful yelp, falling against the dirt.

Shelton had done anything he could in the previous month to protect his injury. From ensuring that there was a platoon wide ban on Eugene carrying the mortar to bribing the Corpsman with cigarettes to change the bandages on his dressing to ensure it was kept clean.

But there was not a drop of thought given to Eugene's injury at this moment.

Shelton followed him to the ground, landing on his knees beside him with a seething expression, he grabbed the front of his utility shirt.

'You ain't _nothin'_ special to me, Gene... don't fuckin' forget that.' He snapped, viciously. 

The statement stung Eugene more than he thought it would, more than it should have done. No, scrap that. It didn't sting. It burnt.

Eugene glared back to cover his hurt. He shoved back against Shelton's chest in an attempt to get him to relinquish his grasp. 

'If you wanna act like a fuckin' lunatic, that's fine... don't mean you gotta drag the rest of us into it with ya.' He retorted, struggling to climb back to his feet. 'Get yourself blown to pieces see if I give a shit.' 

Shelton scoffed, stiffly, only letting him get so far before yanking him back into position by his utility shirt, holding him flush against his chest.

'Says the fucker who gets himself nearly blown to damn pieces by a grenade.' He retorted, cruelly. 'You givin' me advice like you ain't the one cryin' like a damn baby askin' for his Daddy to a point I gotta fuckin' hold you like a little damn girl to stop you from squealin' on, _holdin' my damn hand to stop you bein' frightened_.' He paused; taking in Eugene's pained gaze. ''s the matter Sledge?' He asked, his voice barely audible, an unmistakable flash of cruelty dancing in his eyes. 'Wanna try n' kiss me like y'did at Christmas, _y'dirty fuck_?'

He could have stabbed him and it would have hurt less.

Eugene's heart pounded as he gaped at him, barely able to process the words out of his mouth. His eyes pricked agonisingly, his skin burnt with humiliation and repulsion. Inadvertently, he let out a low noise somewhere between disgust and a wounded animal.

He shoved him backwards, forcefully enough that Shelton finally let him go.

'You're a _horrible_ fuckin' person, Shelton.' Eugene hissed, horrified with himself when a tear spilt from his eye. He pushed him again angrily, trying to convey even an ounce of the pain ripping through his veins.

All this time he'd been dying inside.

Dying at the prospect that this might have been more than a friendship.

Dying at the knowledge he wanted it to be.

Dying at the possibility that Shelton might have had a suspicion.

He didn't have a suspicion.

He knew.

He knew and he used it against him, in the worst possible way he could have done. He used it to hurt him; _to make fun of him._

Tears were freely falling down Eugene's face as he shoved his way past Bill and Burgie.

The small voice in the back of his head placating him that Shelton's final sentence had been too quiet for them to hear. _He would never put you in a position like that,_ it assured him.

He ignored it. Eugene had _no clue_ what Shelton might do; if you had asked him five minutes ago, he would have sworn that Shelton would have cut his own tongue out before saying anything so remotely hurtful _._ No, he certainly wasn't the man that Eugene had believed him to be.

He had caught a glimmer of regret inching across his face as he'd pushed him away.

That had always been Shelton's problem - _hurt first, lash out instantly, think and make amends, later_. This time, he didn't give a shit if Shelton regretted it. Shelton always regretted it and it never stopped him doing it... not a single damn time. Usually, that was fine. But this? This crossed a line.

This was so much worse to Eugene than what Burgie had done.

Burgie's crimes, about which Shelton had been so self-righteously indignant, paled in comparison to his own. 

Because Burgie was Burgie and Shelton was Shelton.

So yes, the platoon was right. Their arguing had started with the girl.

Yet no one could get either of them to reveal what Shelton had said to cause Eugene's outburst, to make him limp down the trail fighting back on tears. Most of them simply couldn't get past the fact Shelton had pushed him to the floor, not when he had been so protective of him in the recent weeks.

But after a few days, the platoon moved on to new dramas.

Everyone except them.

Eugene vowed then that whatever 'this' had been was over. 

Because Merriell Shelton had been his friend; until he wasn't, and Shelton could never be trusted to be anything more.

Shelton was too volatile, too dangerous.

Shelton knew too much.

Eugene vowed was going to take it to the grave; all the feelings, all the touches and the warmth. He'd die with his secret.

This had been God's warning; he surmised. _No good will come of your feelings or of this man._

He gave his penance each night for the sins of his crimes - twenty Hail Mary's and a personal apology to God... well not _every_ night, but the nights he remembered. 

Yet as he cast one final glance to Shelton's sleeping body, he found his mind drawn to David and Jonathon as he pondered the notion of exactly what God would have to say on such a matter. The God he prayed to would never condemn loving someone... _not that Eugene loved Shelton; not at all._

His mind flicked to a particular passage in his bible: “My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.”

With a huff, he rose to his feet, heading for the latrine hole, signifying the start to the day, as he tried to push all feelings for Merriell Shelton from his head.

* * *

That day had been no different from the one before it.

They followed their patterns. Arguing from breakfast - their dispute escalating when Eugene had purposely tripped him over causing him to lose his food, a pile of festering rice with some none-descript grey meat, to the mud. 

Burgie had forced him to swap their rations which he had done willingly. The endeavour had been entirely worth it solely to see Shelton's furious face over his dropped food.

They had packed up their broken tent and moved out to paths unknown by 08:00 accompanied by the new Boots they had been assigned. Hamm, from the Mid-West, and Peck, who refused to stop talking about his wife, along with a few others, whose names simply evaded Eugene.

Shelton had taken it upon himself to perform his usual hazing of the new recruits and Eugene was weary of it - calling him _a nasty, fucking bully._

Shelton spat back and they argued.

They argued so damn much that Mac himself had separated them. Pairing Eugene up with Bill and Shelton with Hamm, much to his annoyance.

The platoon descended upon the inhabited bunker a little after midday.

The sun hung burning relentlessly in the sky, a complete contrast to the weather from the previous week. The dirt was turning to dust, lingering in the air. Eugene had inhaled a mouthful of it seconds before the onslaught began. 

They hadn't even realised there was a bunker there, to begin with.

In fact, they only became aware of it when the Japs flooded out of it, shrieking in warning, a terrifying sight to even the most hardened old breed.

_One, two, three, four, five._

They came haring out, like rats from a sinking ship, brandishing bayonets.

It was only afterwards that they had realised that they had remained gunless; posing very little danger other than to alarm them. Mercifully, they were mowed down before even having a chance to reach the mount on which the platoon had been stood. 

It was Shelton’s loud cackle at Hamm’s petrified face bursting through the silence as he clutched his smoking gun that roused the group back to life.

It was his trademark after all, somehow managing to inject some humour back for them whenever they were petrified.

It had seemed Hamm had been the powerhouse behind the spray of bullets that had rendered the Japs dead in their tracks.

He launched his gun away repulsively - a kid no older than nineteen who had just shot five men dead in the space of twenty seconds.

Shelton laughed again; a short, sharp bark. Eugene recognised the sadness behind it, despite the way he clapped Hamm on the back, genially.

‘Welcome t'the Pacific, Hamm with two M’s.’ He stated, climbing up onto the mount to retrieve his gun for him.

It was a tale as old as time and afterwards, they would chastise themselves that they were heedless enough to not recognise the signs. They'd chastise themselves _even more_ for the fact that every single man in the company had placed his weapon onto the ground or back on his shoulder under the assumed blanket of safety.

Not a single Marine was prepared for the sixth Jap that came screaming out of the bunker, a grenade clutched in his hand.

Not one.

Except for Shelton.

Had he been a centimetre away, he would not have reached Hamm's rifle in time.

He would not have fired the single shot into the Jap's chest and he most certainly would not have been able to launch himself after the de-pinned grenade that had fallen from the now dead soldier's grasp as he collapsed - his final act of warfare.

Eugene's stomach bottomed as he watched the scene before him.

The chink of skittering metal against the stone of the Jap bunker followed by Shelton's screams of ‘GRENADE! _GRENADE_!’ 

His voice cracked on the second shout and everything suddenly sank into slow motion, at least it did for Eugene.

They scrabbled for cover, dropping from the mount into every hole and indent in the hope of cover.

Then everything froze entirely and Eugene's knees nearly collapsed from beneath him.

Because he was simply too far away to intervene as Shelton launched himself across the rockface in the opposite direction of the rest of the retreating marines, grabbing the grenade and pressing it into his body.

'NO! NO! NO!' Eugene's screams ripped from his chest as he watched Shelton curl himself around the explosive with a deafening cry of _“GET THE FUCK DOWN!”_

He was sacrificing himself; this grenade was going off and they were in too close quarters for it not to do a great deal of damage. If Shelton was curled around that bomb when it went off he would be blown to pieces, yet the rest of the damage would be minimal.

Not to Eugene.

His lungs went raw against his own explosion, panic and abject terror flooding him. He was screaming for Shelton, but Shelton wasn't looking at him. _Couldn't look at him._ His face tucked down against the ground as committed suicide for the safety of his men.

All Eugene could see was Shelton in their tent at Christmas - with his stupid fucking Santa hat, crawling across the sand towards him as he giggled at his own drunkenness. _His Shelton._ His Shelton with his long hair twisted into his bun and his soulful eyes and his desperate expression and his handwritten note clutched tentatively in his grasp and his euphoric grin at Eugene's acceptance of his gift.

All he could feel was his fingers against his cheek and the warmth against his side and the urge to inch their faces together, overwhelmed by the need to kiss him regardless of fucking God or the law or his parents; _just desperately, just once._

Suddenly, he was consumed with the knowledge that Shelton never meant it; not a word of it. He was atrociously angry; atrociously hurting but he'd never meant it.

Shelton meant each time he'd called his name in the darkness of their tent on Pauvu as he was gripped by fever and illness. Shelton meant all of the secrets he'd entrusted to him about his family and his past. Shelton meant the note. Shelton meant the embraces and the touches he gave him in their foxholes. Shelton meant forcing Burgie out of the tent for his atrocities against him. Shelton meant the nights he'd sat up watching over him after his accident. Shelton meant the lighter he passed to him knowing his was broken. Shelton meant the jokes and the laughs behind Burgie's back for nothing than to humour him.

Shelton meant the world to him.

And Shelton would be dead in the next ten seconds.

It was a visceral reaction as he tried to scramble over the top of the ditch that he had instinctually cowered against. He didn't care about his own safety, he couldn't care. 

All he could do was think how they had spent their last weeks being so downright fucking vicious; like they hadn't mattered to one another. How their final words had been ones of anger.

Hands suddenly grabbed him, yanking him back down into the safety of the hole he was so desperately fighting to get out of. 

He screamed Shelton's name over and over and over, ignoring the fact his own was being shouted.

All he could focus on was Shelton's curly head, tucked between his shoulders as he attempted to body block the rest of them from the explosive in his grasp. 

Eugene's limbs were heavy beneath him as he fought against the hands that gripped him. His blood pounded throughout his body. He felt violently sick, an agony, unlike anything he had ever felt, ripping throughout his body.

He felt like he was about to die.

Yet no matter how hard he fought; the hands would not relinquish. No matter how much he screamed or how much he kicked like a belligerent mule, they wouldn't let him go. Tears ran down his face as he froze, unable to look away, unable to do _anything_ but _watch -_ like a perverted witness to a car crash.

He couldn't do this without Shelton.

He watched as he spent his final moments quivering over the grenade, one hand clutched over his head the other holding the explosive against his chest.

Eugene's knees buckled beneath him, his lungs burnt, his blood ran like ice.

There was so much he needed to know. So much he needed to tell him; so much he never would.

He stuttered, his chest falling hard against the edge of the foxhole. A final plea falling from his lips.

'Merriell...'

A hand yanked him down into cover and something in him allowed himself to be pulled; it's what Shelton would have wanted.

Sobs echo across his body as he felt a hand pull over his chest tightly, pulling him into an embrace in an attempt to shield him from the agony he must be emitting; _Bill, maybe?_

They trembled as they awaited the explosion, Bill's hands clutched at Eugene desperately, for fear he would bolt. Each second inching by at an agonising pace. 

For the first ten seconds; Eugene sobbed, hands clutched over his ears, wincing as though he were the one about to be blown up. He could already see the image, could smell Shelton's spilt blood and his burning hair.

By the time fifteen seconds had passed, he and Bill slowly dared to raise their heads, along with a few others, confused by the silence - grenades never lasted this long. A breeze ran across the rock face and Shelton winced against it, but there was no further movement. 

After twenty seconds had passed, someone called something out; not that Eugene could understand it over the thundering in his own ears. They watched Shelton’s curly head rise by an inch. He was shaking like a shitting dog as he surveyed the grenade in his grasp.

Then suddenly his head was thrown back in a laugh, a bone-deep guffaw.

‘Ain’t no pin, _fuckers_!’ He called, his voice cracking with unmistakable unspent terror as he held the offending item aloft. He cackled. ‘Y’all can crawl out now, girlies.’

Eugene tears dried instantly against his eyes as his fear transcended to nothing but complete, abject, desolate rage. 

He was shaking as he pulled himself to his feet, shoving Bill unceremoniously out the way before he scrambled up and over the foxhole.

He'd reached Shelton in four strides and for a single moment, Shelton glanced up at him a joyous smile plastered on his face, still on his knees against the rock, _that fucking grenade_ still clutched in his hand. 

Eugene didn't look at him, didn't have the strength.

Instead, he kicked the grenade straight out of his hand with his dusty boot and punched him squarely in the face.

He didn't hear the audible gasp that emitted from the onlooking men. Their arguments and their conflict had _never_ transcended into proper violence... until now.

Shelton landed on his backside, gaping at him in utter shock. His nose opening like a tap, pouring crimson upon impact. 

But Eugene didn't care. 

The second punch landed even harder than its predecessor. 

His fist collided with against Shelton's cheek sending him flying backwards, clutching his jaw. He followed, climbing on top of him. The agony in his knuckles was nothing compared to the rage that was burning through him; he hated him at that moment. Despised him. Hated every ounce of him that could do that to him. 

His fist raised automatically for a third hit, but this time Shelton was ready for it. He threw one back. His strike landed harder than Eugene's - twenty years on the streets had taught him nothing but how to deliver a decent punch.

Eugene recoiled, the impact catching him straight under the chin, sending his head flying backwards. He bit down on his tongue as he fell back against the rock.

But he wasn't finished.

He struggled up to his elbows, spitting copper to the coral as he attempted to fling himself back on top of Shelton. Sensing the oncoming attack, Shelton beat him to it, launching himself back at him, landing heavily against his stomach as he tried to pin Eugene to the ground.

The weight winded him, he squinted for a moment, blinded by the sunlight and Shelton's wild eyes above him but then he could see him exploding and could smell his singed uniform and his burning flesh and his anger came flooding back as he forced himself upwards.

They were all elbows and knees and shoves as they grappled together in the mud and the dust, leaking blood, occasionally managing the odd punch. There was a rough grunt every now and then, as they succeeded only in rolling around on the floor for the most part. Exuding anger and fear and pain.

It was only when he had Shelton pinned beneath his knees, clutching his shirt in one fist, the other raised aloft for his seventh or eighth blow, that Eugene realised he was crying. 

Shelton's wide frantic eyes gazed up at him desperately and his chest suddenly burnt with the realisation of why they were fighting - _w_ _hy he wanted so badly to hurt him_.

His chest heaved with sobs as his hands sank to his sides, his head dropping between his shoulders, completely overwhelmed by feelings of panic and agony. Unable to process the events he had just witnessed. 

Their fight was over as quickly as it had started. Shelton sprang against him, sitting up and dragging Eugene into his arms, as he had in their foxhole. He clutched his head beneath his chin, rocking them soundly as he wept. 

‘It’s fine.’ Shelton urged, a hand threading tightly in his hair as glared forward. Eugene could hear his heartbeat pounding furiously in his chest as adrenaline pumped through his veins. ‘Ain’t nothin’ to cry about Sledgehammer, it’s all fine.’

Eugene shook his head vehemently, gripping to the front of Shelton’s shirt like a despairing child.

Behind them, the platoon began to disperse giving the Brothers' in Arms their needed privacy, as was company policy. Sometimes it got too damn much, clearly as it had done for Sledge - watching his buddy nearly go up in flames.

Never once in their wildest imagination could the platoon have guessed the real reason.

‘I’m gonna _fucking kill you_.’ Eugene choked, after a moment.

Shelton huffed a laugh. ‘No y'ain’t.’ He responded, tightly. ‘You ain’t got the strength – ya punch like a little girl.’

Despite himself, he let out a pitifully wet titter.

Above him, Shelton cast a glance towards where a group of the new Boots were gaping at them, unsure what _the hell_ had just happened.

The fact that the seemingly uncaring and evil Snafu had almost sacrificed himself for the safety of the platoon or the fact that Sledgehammer, who had thrown his breakfast to the floor not six hours earlier, was weeping in his arms at the sheer prospect.

‘Wanna take a picture, ya nosy fucks?!’ He snapped, angrily. ‘’ll last longer!’

They diverted their gaze, like the rest of the squad had had the decency to do.

He glanced past Eugene's shoulder. 

Burgie and Bill sat a little way away, gazing blankly at him. Shell shocked _what the fuck_ expressions on their faces. 

He grinned at them, hiding the fact he had been a microsecond from pissing himself. 

Bill raised his fingers in response whilst Burgie shook his head furiously, covering his face with his hands. 

Shelton cast his attention back down to Eugene. He sank down from his knees, relinquishing the tight hold he had on him as he sat beside him in the dirt. He reached the cuff of his sleeve forward to dab at Eugene's swelling lip, ignoring his own bloody nose. 'You OK?' He asked, tentatively.

Slowly, Eugene nodded. He raised his gaze to Shelton, air huffing from him in staggering breaths. He wiped at his eyes. 

‘Promise you won’t do that again.’ Eugene begged, clutching at his wrist desperately. ‘Swear to me, Snaf. Swear you ain't ever gonna do any shit like that again.’

Shelton huffed lightly, pulling him back into his arms.

‘I swear I’ll keep you safe, Gene.’ He responded quietly, clutching him tightly. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.’ He huffed. 'Ain't like you can do it your damn self.'

* * *

_I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe._

Eugene recalled Shelton's statement when Hamm lay dead at his feet a little over a week later.

He had been no more than a boy. A frightened and scared little boy who should have been safely tucked back in North Dakota with his Momma and his beagles. Not dead in a muddy ditch so far away from home.

But none of that mattered; it never _fucking mattered_ \- Hamm lay dead, regardless. Hamm lay dead, Peck lay whimpering like a child and Eugene had failed them both.

_He couldn't keep either of them safe._

Everything had changed in that week.

Mercifully, his and Shelton's arguing had lessened. Yet the niceties that they had shared before Okinawa still seemed a thousand years ago. It simply wasn't a place where comradery and companionship existed, too many atrocities existed for that.

Eugene felt like he was losing himself; the last shreds of his mortality were slipping away. He would crack beneath the pressure; he was sure. He had witnessed too many deplorable acts, he had inflicted too much suffering. 

There was no end in sight to it all. The war in Europe was over now and it seemed as though the rest of the world had forgotten them. They were celebrating whilst the men in the Pacific were still dying; still being slaughtered in their thousands. They hadn't even made it to the Japanese mainland yet, the end of _their_ war wasn't even a dot on the horizon yet.

No matter how low they seemed to sink, it never proved to be rock bottom. Things always managed to get worse.

He had liquidated an entire family, held a woman old enough to be his Grandma until she had died in his arms. Bill was gone. Deacon was dead; now Hamm and Peck were too.

Eugene could feel his last shreds of stability ebbing away into the night, like smoke into a breeze as the realisation sank in.

_He couldn't keep anybody safe._

That night had been his worst experience of war to date. Worse than Ack-Ack, worse than Haney, worse than watching Bill be blown up - worse than everything else combined.

Because for the first time, he had witnessed Shelton being truly terrified. Had recognised the fear, identical to his own - Shelton was utterly, utterly traumatised and he'd never ever seen that before. Never had any indication of it. Nothing ever scared Shelton, not really - Shelton ran across airfields and lit up on the other side; Shelton was ready to move out to war after almost dying of Malaria; Shelton jumped on top of grenades without a second thought.

There was never anything to be afraid of if he wasn't and Shelton was never afraid.

But tonight, Shelton hadn't been there; neither had Snafu. The only person beneath that slicker had been Merriell; the terrified boy, barely in his twenties who just wanted this nightmare to be over; _who needed this nightmare to be over._ And that? That had absolutely petrified Eugene to his bones. Because for the first time, he had realised that Shelton was not indestructible.

He no longer had to fear just the threat of bullets and bombs destroying Shelton; he now had to fear his own mental stability, too. That wasn't anything Eugene could even attempt to control. 

Their screaming at one another had been an outlet for such terrors; a way of expressing their trauma without shattering beneath it.

But it had also been Peck's undoing. It was a constant balancing act; protecting yourself and protecting your men. Eugene trembled beneath the weight of it all.

_What if he couldn't keep Shelton safe? He could barely keep himself safe._

They sat staring at one another for an awfully long time after the Corpsmen had carried Peck and Hamm away. Their anger still surging through their veins; their terror still palpable.

Eugene was sopping beneath his collar, his fringe leaked down into his eyes, his uniform clung to him with thick mud from where Shelton had pinned him to the ground. _He wanted to go home._

Shelton was gazing at him, in an odd way that he couldn't quite place. His eyes frantic, his hair dripping beneath the rain almost to a point where his curls were flattened out.

His hands twitched and he kept opening his mouth as though he were trying to find the correct thing to say.

Eugene found it funny, how after all this time, he still didn't get it.

He still didn't understand that he didn't need to do or say anything other than just _be there_ , other than just _be himself_. Exactly like he had been with Deacon, exactly like he had been in their foxhole, exactly like he had always been.

It was only when Shelton lunged forward and slammed him back against the wall of the foxhole that Eugene finally managed to figure out exactly what it was that he had been trying to do.

He was shocked by how unshocked he was when he felt Shelton's lips against his own. Almost like they had belonged there all along. 

_I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe._

The thought travelled briefly through Eugene's mind how Shelton was upholding his promise right then, for he was sure he would have gone mad from the need to kiss him if he had had to wait a moment longer.

It was nothing at all like he had imagined.

Shelton's lips were unbearably dry; burnt and cracked from sun-damage. Their teeth clacked against each other forcefully, they were both filthy and tired and exhausted and petrified. But it was unlike anything Eugene had ever experienced in his life - nothing came close neither the satisfaction nor the physical need for it.

He could have kissed him, forever.

It was such a realisation that suddenly made him shove him away, forcefully pushing two hands against his chest to separate them. Shelton recoiled into the dirt like he had been burnt, as he gazed at Eugene through the darkness, looking utterly harrowed.

He wasn't Queer; he'd been so sure he wasn't Queer. He'd told himself so many times that he wasn't. He'd believed himself, too. He'd convinced himself each time that he was normal; that there was nothing wrong with him.

Then each time he had looked at Shelton it had all become undone.

Because he didn't know what the fuck he was. All he knew was that he would rather take his handgun and pull the trigger against his temple than ignore this, anymore. He didn't _want_ to be Shelton's friend, anymore. He _couldn't_ be Shelton's friend, anymore.

Shelton continued to gape at him wide-eyed, wearing an expression close to hysteria. Eugene took in the sheer look of terror and devastation on his face. Worse than anything Eugene had ever seen on the battlefield.

A gasp caught in his lungs.

His Mother would disown him, that was certain. His brother would beat him half to death; his Father would institutionalise him and send him for therapy. His town would lynch him if they could; his friends would abandon him; Sidney would be repulsed by him; even God would turn against him.

But as he raised a trembling hand and touched his lip, moist and tingling from Shelton's mouth against his own, despite the terror and the disgust that he was fighting against, he simply couldn't find it in himself to care.

Before he had a chance to change his mind, Eugene threw himself forward in the dirt, colliding heavily back against Shelton and kissed him.

He kissed him like he'd kissed Ruthie Dawes in twelfth grade, until five seconds against Shelton's lips taught him that Ruthie Dawes had been a terrible kisser. 

He kissed him with no thought for the future, or for tomorrow, or for the next five minutes.

He kissed him because tomorrow one of them might be gone.

He kissed him because the fear of dying without having done so was too unbearable to live with.

He kissed him with all the unspoken words, with all the overpowering gazes, with all the inexplicable touches, with all the truths that he had been unwilling or unwanting to admit.

He kissed him because Hamm was dead and Hamm would never get the chance to kiss again, so who the fuck were they not to kiss when they had this moment?

He kissed him because he wanted to experience what heaven felt like, just once, after so long in hell.

He kissed him despite the fact that doing so rendered him utterly, utterly terrified.

But then Shelton reached for his face, pressing one hand into his filthy hair and the other on his neck holding in place for fear he may bolt.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered. In fact, deep down, Eugene knew nothing else would matter quite the same, again.

He cried afterwards, curled alone in the mud. His knees clutched to his chest with silent sobs racking his body as he watched Shelton sleep.

He didn't utter a sound, for fear that any other members of the platoon would hear any more than they had already had, for fear that Shelton would realise he was crying, for fear he would have to articulate _just why_ he was so upset.

They wouldn't talk about it; he knew that.

They never talked about any of it, so why should this have been any different? Such a realisation made him cry even harder, shoulders quivering and chest shaking.

He wanted to talk about it; he _needed_ to talk about it. But he knew that by the time the sun arose, he would have crawled so far in on himself that he would never mention it again if Shelton didn't.

When morning arrived, he hadn't slept a wink all night, having watched the first sun rays crack across the night sky and counted each steam of water as it rose from Shelton's soggy clothes.

He was right; they didn't speak about it. Nor did he want to. In fact, they barely said a word to one another, all day.

Then night fell and Shelton's mouth was on his again, and he was almost crippled with his own desperate need for it.

It happened the next night and the next night and the next. 

It happened every night until Shelton's hands and mouth left his own and pressed themselves beneath his dungarees. Eugene saw white, gazing up at the stars, trying to find any part of himself that deemed this even remotely wrong, anymore.

Then the bomb dropped on Hiroshima and they left their stinking foxholes behind.

Then they were sent to a rest camp to await new orders.

Then Shelton's hands moved even further and he learnt more about another human more than he had ever imagined possible.

Then the war was over.

Then they were being sent to China.

Then this had gone beyond anything Eugene had ever envisaged it becoming.

Then Shelton told him he loved him.

Then he said it back.

Then the new year came.

Then they were told that they were going home.

Home. Eugene couldn't even begin to fathom what that was anymore. Couldn't contemplate the thought of sitting around a dinner table with his parents as he pretended the war had never existed. Moreover, he found the thought of returning to Mobile without Shelton by his side too unbearable to live with, regardless of his family's feelings or God's.

He begged on his knees for Shelton not to leave him. He pleaded and cajoled, making promises he knew he couldn't keep. But Shelton agreed and nothing else seemed to matter.

He didn't know if he was Queer or what by that point; he didn't care. All he knew was that he was in love with Merriell Shelton. Irrevocably, unwaveringly and terrifyingly in love with him and he would do anything for a life by his side, anything at all. There was nothing he wasn't prepared to sacrifice, anymore.

A life without Shelton was not a life he was prepared to live.

 _But nothing mattered;_ he thought as he drifted to sleep on the train as they passed Beaumont. _Because Shelton had promised it was all going to be OK._

Then he opened his eyes and the seat opposite him sat empty.

Shelton was gone and nothing would ever matter again.

* * *

_I’ll do anything to keep you safe._

It was that motto that got Shelton through the final months of war; when his knees threatened to buckle beneath him and his mind threatened to fracture at any given moment. The knowledge that without him, Eugene's days may have been numbered.

So he kept going simply for Eugene; he would fight for Eugene with his dying breath.

It was the reason he had launched himself over the top of the grenade, with no thought to his own safety - its explosion could have killed them all; killed Eugene. He was not prepared to take that risk; regardless of his own outcome. 

_I’ll do anything to keep you safe._

He felt like he had broken that promise when his own desperation had gotten in the way of his judgement.

When he had lunged forwards against Eugene the night that Hamm had died. When he had pressed their lips together like he had wanted to do from the moment he had met him. He kissed him without even consciously deciding to do so, simply because he had reached a point where he couldn’t conceive what to do otherwise.

He just knew that he needed to know. Needed to know if this was just him, needed to confirm that it was. Needed to confirm that this was all in his head and that he could die tomorrow and it wouldn’t matter.

He had landed with a wet _slump_ against the wall of the foxhole as Eugene had pushed him off.

His heart-shattered, obliterating beneath the stinking mud because Eugene didn't want him back. But that was OK because he would do anything to keep Eugene safe. Even at the expense of his own feelings.

Then Eugene was kissing him back and everything else was suddenly cast aside. The events which followed happened so quickly that he didn't really understand them himself. Before he knew it, things had escalated beyond all measure and he couldn't stop it, even if he wanted to.

Because for the first time in his entire, miserable little life, he felt what it was like to be loved. He would drown in it, if he could, in Eugene. Subsequently, and all thoughts of keeping him safe fell desolately to the wayside.

For six months, he thought of nothing more than being with Eugene Sledge, because China was its own world and nothing existed outside of it. Most certainly not home.

As they landed back in America, he realised he had forgotten his promise entirely. 

Because he had always sworn to keep him safe, regardless of any other factors. Sometimes that meant doing things that you desperately didn't want to do. Sometimes that meant doing things that would destroy you; destroy you both. Sometimes that meant saying goodbye.

_I’ll do anything to keep you safe._

That was the mantra he repeated as he stood when the train pulled into New Orleans.

He had lied to Eugene, he knew that. It was fitting; _he had always been a coward._

He hadn't meant to at the outset; hell, it hadn't been lies. His promises and the assurances and their plans together had come from the bottom of his heart, with the best of intentions. It was the life he had dreamed about; the life he would give him if he could; if he had a choice.

As they had boarded the train with Burgie, he knew. He thought he'd always known.

Because none of their plans or their happiness meant a thing if they endangered him.

Eugene deserved the world and he had it at his fingertips, at least according to Shelton.

He wanted to say he would take it all back if he could, from that first meeting in the tent all the way to the way Eugene's head felt as he fell asleep against his shoulder for the last time.

But that would be a lie; almost as terrible as the lie that he had made to Eugene that he would be there when he woke up. 

He wanted to stay.

He wanted nothing more than to stay.

He would have died to have stayed for just five more minutes.

But he couldn't; Shelton knew that.

For Eugene held a fire in his eyes that was unlike anything he had ever seen. He held the intelligence of ten men in his head and the kindness of a thousand in his heart. He could go on and be anything, _do anything_.

He had a family who loved him; one who would support him and care for him and provide him with the life he deserved until he was ready to carve his own path.

Shelton didn't know what Eugene's path would be, or what his future would hold. Yet he knew two things. 

The first? It would be magnificent.

Because Eugene was magnificent, so to expect anything less of him would have been to undermine his potential and Shelton learnt a long time ago what a travesty that was. 

The second? Eugene's future could not have him in it.

Because Eugene deserved the world; especially after spending such an awfully long time teetering against the underbelly of it. He deserved to heal and to love and to be loved. 

Shelton could never have provided him with the life he had deserved, not for lack of wanting to.

He would only ever have served as a ball and chained shackled around Eugene's ankle, limiting whatever potential he could have achieved.

A life with Shelton would be spent in the shadows; hiding. Spending each and every day hiding, always looking over his shoulder for fear someone would work out the truth. Risking public humiliation, social condemnation, abandonment by his family and friends, _imprisonment..._ no.

He would never let that happen. Not to Eugene.

He loved him _too much_ , that was the problem. Perhaps if he had loved him less he would have stayed, he would have allowed him mediocrity and a life spent on the run. 

But Eugene deserved to soar and Shelton had promised to fight for him.

He would fight until his dying breath and then he would fight some more. This was their most important battle yet; fighting to let him go.

_I’ll do anything to keep you safe._

He hadn't slept a wink in two days as the train drew to a stop in New Orleans.

He hadn't wanted to; he had wanted to savour every moment of simply basking in Eugene's presence, ingraining every inch of his face into his memory, every curve and every blemish.

He didn't even have a picture; he had realised as they passed San Antonio. _Not that he would need one._ He would never forget a moment of it; he was sure of that.

He had stood with the rest of the inhabitants of the carriage. At that moment, he wished he had written him a letter. Some vestige for Eugene to remember him by; in case he forgot him. He so desperately hoped he wouldn't forget him.

Yet in typical Shelton style, he had nothing to give.

He hung back as the rest of the carriage moved onwards, leaving him the final departing passenger.

 _Just wake up._ Part of him urged, gazing desperately into Eugene’s sleeping face. _Please, just wake up. Wake up and I won’t be able to leave. Wake up and I'll go with you wherever you want to go. I'll never leave you, I swear. I'll follow you to the ends of the earth and I'll keep you safe and I'll keep you happy and I'll make sure you never need to worry about another thing in your entire life. Just - wake - up!_

But Eugene remained firmly asleep.

Shelton felt like he was dying as he placed his beret on his head. 

This wasn’t supposed to have happened - not the last six months or the last two years.

He had joined the Marines to kill some Nips, have a few square meals and fully intended to die out there. He wished he had. It would have ended his suffering - he was in for a lifetime of suffering after this.

He hadn’t planned for them to fall for one another the way they had, he hadn’t planned to turn Eugene queer the way he had, he didn’t mean to fall in love with him the way he did and he most certainly did not intend for Eugene to love him back.

Yet for whatever, unbeknownst reason, he had. Or at least, Eugene thought he had.

He hadn't quite worked out yet that Shelton wasn't worth loving. He would have done if he'd been given the time. Everyone always did. 

He was like a tumour that clung to the people he cared about; slowly destroying everything he touched. _His parents; his sister; himself._ He wouldn't destroy Eugene.

But Eugene had destroyed him.

Shelton would never recover from this. _From what it felt like to be loved._ That was a feeling he intended to hold onto; the safety and the warmth of it. He had never been loved before and he had drawn the conclusion he had never loved anyone either, not truly. Not like Eugene.

But he had. He had had two long whole years of it. Two years of being in the presence of the man he loved, protecting him, supporting him, caring for him - _in his own fucked up little way_.

That was more than most people had in a lifetime.

But now it was time to let him go.

Because he would do anything to keep Eugene safe; no matter the cost.

He cast a cautious glance up and down the empty carriage before ducking down to plant a kiss against Eugene’s head, so brief his lips barely touched his skin.

‘I love you.’ He whispered. ‘Never forget that.’ He touched his hair, breathing him in one last time - his smell and his warmth. 'This _ain't your fault_.'

Then it was time.

Slowly he straightened, lifting his seabag onto his shoulder.

With deadened feet, he forced one boot in front of one another, making his way off the train.

It was time to go home.

As his feet hit the platform, he cast one final glance to the window he knew Eugene to be leaning against.

_Just wake up and see me. Just wake up. Just wake up. I'll stay. I promise I'll stay._

‘Bye, Gene.’ He whispered, filling his lungs with Louisiana air as he strode down the platform.

The train whistle sounded and the distinctive scraping of wheels against track echoed in his ears as it began to chug from the station.

He did not look back.

Despite his most desperate attempts, agony gripped his chest and he let out a desolate, dry sob as he pressed his way through the crowd. He felt his heart being ripped clear from him as he walked, carrying down the tracks without him. Its destination? Mobile, Alabama.

He took a shaking breath as he forced his tears back down inside of him, blood pummeling through his veins as he headed towards the exit.

_I’ll do anything to keep you safe._

_I’ll do anything to keep you safe._

_I’ll do anything to keep you safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> I've no words other than I'm sorry.
> 
> It crippled me reading it back and I fucking wrote it.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it? Kind of...
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for reading and I would love to know what you think... all anger will be accepted. 
> 
> * Title is by who the fuck cares at this point *
> 
> ** If it makes anybody feel better I lost the entire second chapter and had to rewrite it... which actually worked out better in the long run because I absolutely hated how it didn't fit in the timeline... it's a lot more bulked out so old readers have half of a new chapter (kinda) **


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